


The Bridesmaid and The Groom

by AquaFontem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Mention of Drug Use/Abuse, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaFontem/pseuds/AquaFontem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper is travelling to her grandparents' estate for the wedding of her cousin, Jasmine. When she meets Sherlock Holmes on the train, she experiences an instant attraction, but is sure that she will never see him again. So when he turns up again most unexpectedly, she will have to navigate her own feelings for him while he prepares to join with another. </p>
<p>Victorian AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The steam curled around Molly Hooper as she rushed across the platform, her gloved hands gripping her suitcase firmly while she maneouvred herself through the crowd.

 

She was very late, and the time printed onto her ticket glared at her judgementally as she lifted her skirts higher, throwing propriety to the wind in favour of catching her train.

 

She was quite breathless when the locomotive finally emerged out of the gloom before her, stretching out of the confines of the station into the dense fog that was suffocating London, so much so that the tender and cab was barely visible.

 

The ticket inspector waved to the driver to hold the train when he saw her hurrying towards him, her ticket thrust in front of her as she tried to restrain herself from running.

 

‘London to Derby?’ He took her ticket from her when she nodded, unable to speak as she caught her breath, attempting to gulp down air as delicately as possible. The man barely looked at the paper in his hands before he opened the nearest compartment, helping her into it and closing the door just as the train began to lurch away.

 

‘Thank you so much,’ Molly breathed out, taking back her ticket through the open window.

 

In her haste, she hadn’t noticed that she was not alone in the compartment, but when she turned she found a man was sat reading his paper, clearly oblivious to her hurried entrance. She was rather glad of this, as she was sure that she looked rather disheveled, the wisps of hair falling out of the bun at the back of her head tickling the skin of her neck.

 

The stranger was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen, and he wasn’t even looking at her. From the side, she could see his defined cheekbones and jaw line, the gentle shadows caused by both giving his face fascinating depth. She could just see the hint of full lips and a prominent Cupid’s bow, and his mouth twitched as his eyes scanned the page in front of him. He had a mop of black curls atop his head, and he inhabited a leanness of physique that Molly preferred to burlier men, whose strength always seemed annoyingly indiscreet.

 

‘Good day,’ she said pleasantly, but he disappointingly ignored her, so she focused instead on trying to lift her case onto the luggage rack above her. She cursed her small stature first and her overindulgent packing second as she struggled, trying to keep herself upright as the train moved.

 

‘Were you never taught the importance of punctuality, or do you enjoy making other people wait for you?’ The man spoke for the first time, his deep baritone making her skin tingle before she realised what he had said. She set her bag onto the seat, and whirled around to face him, even though his position was eerily unchanged.

 

‘Pardon?’ She said, her voice trembling. The stranger sighed, as if he was speaking to a petulant child.

 

‘I said: were you never-’ The man halted in his speech when he lifted his gaze to glare at her, and Molly automatically drew in a sharp breath at the moment when their eyes met. ‘Excuse me,’ he said instantly, but Molly was too angry to pay him any heed.

 

‘How dare you,’ she hissed, impressed by the way she managed not to stutter. Her initial attraction towards the man hadn’t exactly vanished, but it was thankfully overwhelmed by her rage. ‘I could have you thrown from the train for speaking to me in such a manner.’

 

‘You wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Hooper,’ he replied, and she hated the fact that this was probably true.

 

‘How do you know my name?’

 

‘It’s written on the label of your suitcase,’ he said quietly, and she couldn’t resist checking. Sure enough, ‘Miss M. Hooper’ was written in her illegible script, which other physicians had criticised her for at the beginning of her career after finding not enough wrong with her.

 

‘Well, I was unavoidably detained. I am usually very punctual.’ The man’s raised eyebrow made her want to rip his curly hair from his head, and she barely restrained herself. ‘Regardless, I was only a minute late, so I doubt I’ve disturbed the train’s schedule too terribly. I’ll thank you to leave me alone now please.’

 

She resumed wrestling with her bag, muttering inaudibly under her breath. She considered going to another compartment, but she was not about to allow him to drive her out. If he was so offended by her apparent lack of manners then he should be the one to go, because she was staying put.

 

Molly sighed; ready to give up trying to position her case, when two hands appeared to grip either side of the suitcase. They lifted it easily out of her grasp and onto the rack so quickly that Molly barely registered what was happening, turning slowly to face the person who had come to her aid.

 

The handsome, rude stranger grinned down at her, and she noticed first that he was considerably taller than she. His eyes sparkled while she tried to recover her voice, and she saw that they changed colour with every passing moment.

 

‘I could have managed without you,’ she said eventually, taken aback by her own insolence, but unable to feel truly remorseful.

 

‘I beg to differ, Miss Hooper,’ he replied, and Molly wondered whether she should ask him to use her proper title, even though she’d never observed it before. ‘I must admit that I am not well versed in the conventions of social etiquette,’ she suppressed a snort with difficulty, ‘but I believe this is where you thank me.’

 

‘You are quite correct,’ she said cordially, but she shut her mouth firmly and sat down. He chuckled (she ignored the effect it had on her) and went back to his seat.

 

They sat in silence for a while, Molly wistfully gazing up at her case once she realised that the medical journal that she had brought with her for the journey was inconveniently secreted inside it. She couldn’t think of asking the man for his assistance, and she was not about to grapple for it herself, so she resigned herself to the boredom of staring out of the window until reading material could be sourced at the next stop.

 

‘Miss Hooper,’ she wondered whatever he could want now, and was rather taken aback when she found that he was offering her his paper.

 

‘No, thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth, but the bothersome man was undeterred.

 

‘I am quite finished with it,’ he said, but he seemed to sense her hostility because he leaned forward. ‘It appears that we got off on the wrong foot, Miss Hooper,’ she met his eyes warily, ‘and I must apologise for the role I played in that.’ Molly narrowed her eyes at him, not entirely convinced that his repentance was genuine. Still, she was nothing if not forgiving, so she nodded her acceptance.

 

‘That’s quite alright, Mr…?’

 

‘Holmes,’ he supplied, ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ He was smiling now, and Molly noted that it made him look younger. ‘And please, accept this,’ he handed the paper to her, and this time she took it from him.

 

‘Are you sure that you are finished with it?’

 

‘Yes, yes. I have found a much more interesting occupation,’ he assured her, and she murmured her thanks, even though she had a sneaking suspicion that his ‘occupation’ involved fixing his eyes solely on her.

 

**********

 

Molly was done with the paper in under half an hour, only really interested in the report about the murder of the woman that had occurred last week, which the paper had claimed was solved by a third party working with the police. Molly had seen the same addendum in nearly all the reports of serious crimes over the past few months, and she wondered who this mysterious detective was, and why the police couldn’t seem to solve anything without him.

 

Mr Holmes was now staring out the window, in a deep contemplative state if the tented hands under his chin were anything to go by. Molly used this distraction to study him, still deeply confused about whether she liked or loathed the man.

 

He was undeniably attractive, and Molly would be lying if she said that she hadn’t been drawn to him from the first moment she saw him. However, her impression of him still hadn’t fully recovered from his earlier rudeness, no matter how gentlemanly he had appeared when he helped her with her bag and offered her his paper.

 

Still, she supposed it didn’t really matter what she thought of him, resolved as she was to remain a spinster in favour of keeping her career. She had nothing against the idea of marriage, but her current mood made her sure it was not something to aspire to, guilty as it was for the inconvenient journey she was making.

 

Her cousin, Jasmine, was getting married at her grandparents’ house in Derbyshire, and as a bridesmaid, Molly was under an obligation to go.

 

The groom’s family and her grandfather had arranged the match, which, although this wasn’t something Molly necessarily frowned upon, wasn’t a circumstance she would wish for herself.

 

The wedding also meant spending time with Jasmine, whose unfortunate vanity and self-absorption was enough to put anyone off the idea of marriage forever.

 

Molly sighed, unaware that she had done so audibly until she realised that Mr Holmes had diverted his attention to her.

 

‘Is something the matter, Miss Hooper?’ She shook her head.

 

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you.’ Molly decided that changing the subject would probably be best. ‘I wonder if you know how much longer the journey will be?’

 

‘A good few hours yet, Miss Hooper,’ she nodded, ‘but, forgive me, I don’t believe you’re all that eager to arrive at our destination just yet.’ She slumped, recalling the letter she had received from Jasmine the week before, which had detailed why Molly’s pale complexion made picking bridesmaids dresses so difficult in an almost accusatory tone.

 

‘May I ask how you worked that out, Mr Holmes?’ She asked him, wondering vaguely if he’d read it on the label of her suitcase.  

 

‘Your posture relaxes every time we momentarily halt, and your brow furrows every time we start to move again. Clearly you are dreading whatever it is that has forced you away from London,’ he finished, and she was simultaneously shocked and flattered that he had bothered to observe her.

 

‘You are quite right, Mr Holmes.’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what else you can work out about me,’ it wasn’t really a challenge, but he took it anyway, deducing her as he had done with many others.

 

‘You qualified as a physician four years ago, with distinction, supported in your studies by your grandfather despite the disapproval of your grandmother. You are unmarried, despite the ring on the correct finger, which in fact belonged to your mother. She died when you were very young, your father shortly after, and you suspect his death was due to a broken heart. You wear the ring because it reminds you of them, but it also makes your professional life easier because your colleagues feel less threatened by a married woman. They have never attempted to find out whether you are actually somebody’s wife, but you have never fixed this impression because they are more inclined to leave you alone. Am I correct so far?’

 

Molly nodded; still processing what Mr Holmes had told her in so hurried a fashion. He smiled, clearly pleased with himself, and resumed speaking, even though Molly couldn’t imagine what else he could find to say.

 

‘You are wearing your favourite dress, because you are likely to be scrutinised upon your arrival at your…’ he paused, searching her for the end of his sentence, ‘grandparents’ house? Yes, your grandparents’ house. You are attending a celebration of some kind there, but you do not get on with the person that it is being held for, which explains your reluctance to attend.’

 

‘Wha… How… Tha…’ He looked very smug, but Molly was too shocked to dislike him for it. ‘How did you know all of that?’

 

‘Deductions.’

 

‘Excuse me?’

 

‘I am very good at reading people, Miss Hooper. For example, I knew you were a physician because of the slight marking of a stethoscope on your neck, and I know that that is your mother’s ring because it is slightly too big for you, as if it were made originally for someone else’s finger. I also worked out that both of your parents have passed because of the locket around your neck with their pictures in, which you reach for unconsciously to suggest that you have worn it for so long that you forget it is there,’ he said. Molly was awestruck, staring at the man before her with unabashed admiration. She realised that her fingers had closed around her locket, a gift from her grandfather the year after her father died, which she hadn’t taken off since the age of eleven.

 

‘And my dress?’

 

‘Well, you’ve subtly darned a hole on the shoulder, and such care suggests either frugality or an attachment to the garment. While you are careful with your possessions, I am inclined towards the latter, because you keep brushing off the skirt as if you are afraid of it getting dirty. This raises the question of why you would wear something that you like so much for travelling; from which I naturally conclude that you are conscious that you will have to withstand another’s inspection. For most women, they would be most conscious of the views of an authority figure, a relative most probably, and through process of elimination I would suggest you are concerned about the views of one, possibly both of your grandparents.’

 

‘My grandmother,’ Molly supplied, prompting him to go on.

 

‘Once I had concluded that, it was reasonable to assume that you were going to your grandparents’ house, but your decision to take the latest train possible indicates you are not looking forward to the trip. You are clearly there for a substantial amount of time if the size of your suitcase is anything to go by, and you have clearly been forced to stay for so long. This is due to an event outside of your control, so you have had no choice, but you did decide to put the gift you brought in your suitcase rather than ensuring its safety by keeping it separate. Therefore, I assume you are not close with the person that it is for.’ Molly was gobsmacked, her eyes becoming wider with each correct deduction that the man made. He smiled at her reaction, and she laughed after a moment, observing that it wasn’t fair that such a gorgeous man could be blessed with such a brain.

 

‘May I ask what it is that you do, Mr Holmes; since you know so much about me?’

 

‘I’m a detective,’ he replied, and she supposed that made sense. ‘I investigate cases that are brought to me by individuals, but I am also contracted occasionally by the police if they require assistance with their cases.’ Comprehension dawned on Molly, and she flicked her gaze from him to the paper.

 

‘You’re the third party!’ She said excitedly.

 

‘I’m sorry?’ Molly picked up the paper and waved it in front of him.

 

‘You’re the third party who helped the police with the murder of that woman last week. The article mentions you, not by name of course, but they say that you solved it. I’ve been wondering who you are for months now.’ She realised she was getting carried away, but her excitement prevented her from being embarrassed. Mr Holmes studied her with an unidentifiable expression, and she blushed as the intensity of his gaze increased exponentially.

 

‘I’m flattered, Miss Hooper,’ he said eventually. ‘I hope I have not disappointed you.’ She looked down at her clasped hands, her face warm from the burning of his eyes.

 

‘I am not sure what my expectations were, Mr Holmes,’ she kept her eyes averted, as she knew that she would be unable to say this to him if she looked up, ‘but I am quite certain that you exceed them.’

 

**********

 

The train rolled into Derby station at quarter to seven, much to Molly’s displeasure. Although she had never wanted to be here in the first place, the fact that she had to part from Mr Holmes was an added detriment to her arrival in the country.

 

Over the journey, she had got to know the initially aloof detective who shared her compartment, and found herself rather besotted by him. He impressed her repeatedly with his genius intellect, and her interest in crime and the human body meant that she was fascinated by the stories that he told of cases he had worked on.

 

Now, as he lifted her case off the luggage rack and helped her onto the platform, she felt some sadness at the fact that she would probably never see him again.

 

She turned to face him when they had both departed the train, and he handed her the handle of her bag, which she took gratefully.

 

‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ she said, pulling down her jacket with characteristic shyness. ‘It was lovely to meet you,’ she said honestly, trying to remain cheerful despite the dull ache in her chest.

 

‘The pleasure was all mine, Dr Hooper,’ she laughed: his acceptance of her medical career was yet another reason why she liked him. ‘I hope that your trip will not be as unbearable as you are anticipating,’ she smiled, and he readily returned it.

 

‘Thank you, Mr Holmes. So do I.’ He nodded, and they both spent a moment looking everywhere but at each other. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, her voice much smaller than before.

 

She was about to walk away when his hand found its way to hers; raising it to his mouth as he bent down to kiss it. His lips pressed against her skin, and she was infinitely glad that her gloves were clasped in the hand carrying her suitcase.

 

‘Goodbye, Miss Hooper,’ he murmured, their eyes locked on each other before he straightened and walked away, turning once to look back at her. Then he passed under the arch that led out of the station and disappeared.

 

Molly stood in the middle of the platform for a minute more, her hand still burning from his touch, refusing to allow herself to cry.

 

She walked towards the same exit that had swallowed him only moments before, and prepared herself for boarding the cart that would take her to her grandparents, and her probable doom.

 

**********

 

The horseman helped her out of the cart, the gravel in the driveway of her grandparents’ estate crunching under her boots. She stared up at the manor that held such bittersweet memories before she strode to the large oak door, pressing the bell and feeling her confidence ebb away with every second.

 

A servant ushered her in, taking her jacket and the suitcase that the horseman carried in for her. Then she made her own way to the ballroom, following the noise that suggested that her grandparents had collected a number of friends to celebrate the impending nuptials.

 

‘Molly, dear,’ her grandfather was the first person she saw, and she rushed over eagerly to greet him, kissing him on each cheek and gripping his hands. She missed him greatly living in London, and it was lovely to see him so well considering the stress that her cousin and her grandmother must put him under.

 

‘Good evening, Molly,’ her grandmother was next, embracing her coldly and scanning her appraisingly, exactly as Mr Holmes had guessed she would have.

 

Molly said hello to some of her grandfather’s friends once her grandmother had released her, answering politely that she was still working when they questioned her with poorly concealed disbelief.

 

‘Molly, are you going to ignore the bride?’ Jasmine called to her from where she was perched on the sofa, various guests fawning over her, and Molly winced internally at the shrillness of her cousin’s voice.  

 

‘Of course not, Jasmine, how rude of me. How are you?’

 

‘I am frightfully nervous, darling, but I am sure that once my fiancé arrives, I will be quite well.’

 

‘Isn’t he here already?’ Molly was surprised by the groom’s absence, as she had delayed her own visit as much as possible until only a week before the wedding. Her grandmother had not been particularly pleased, but Molly was not prepared to spend any more time here than she had to.

 

‘He is a very busy man, my dear cousin, as you will see. It really is a wonder how he has managed to do without me,’ Jasmine replied modestly, and Molly smiled weakly before seeking solace in her other cousin Mary.

 

‘Molly, thank God you’re here,’ Mary said to her in an undertone, as she pulled Molly to sit beside her on a chaise.

 

‘Has she been unbearable?’ Molly’s voice was full of sympathy, perfectly aware of quite how dreadful Jasmine could be.

 

‘If you hadn’t been coming, I don’t think there would have been a wedding- I was this close to strangling her with a pair of stockings,’ Molly laughed, squeezing Mary’s hand comfortingly.

 

‘We’ll manage together, don’t worry.’ They paused for a moment, listening to the buzz of the people around them, and the voice of Jasmine somehow drowning them all out.

 

From the beginning, Jasmine had been the sole option out of all of Lord Geoffrey Hooper’s grandchildren for the match. He had automatically excluded Molly, his favourite, to allow her the freedom that she enjoyed in the city, and Mary had removed herself due to the fact that it interfered with her wishes to marry for love. Jasmine, however, had suggested herself readily, apparently familiar with the man that she was to marry from the balls she attended, and content that he would match her unerringly high standards.

 

‘So when is he expected?’ Molly asked Mary, her curiosity getting the better of her.

 

‘The groom?’ Molly nodded. ‘Tonight. He seemed to have the same idea as you, putting off getting here so that the others have to deal with Jasmine.’

 

‘I’m sorry for that, by the way,’ Molly whispered, blushing guiltily.

 

‘Don’t worry; you’re here now. How was the journey?’ Molly flushed again, for wholly different reasons, debating whether she should tell Mary about Mr Holmes. Luckily, her cousin’s perceptiveness meant she had little choice. ‘I know that face, Molly, what happened?’

 

‘I met a man on the train,’ Molly confessed. ‘We were in the same compartment. He was… lovely,’ Molly finished breathlessly, and Mary laughed as her cousin seemed to enter into a kind of trance.

 

‘You can tell me all about it later.’ Mary said, ending her sentence just as the butler entered to inform them that Jasmine’s fiancé had finally arrived.

 

Mary and Molly stood with the rest of their family, sharing a small smile at the prospect of meeting the unfortunate man who would be joined to Jasmine for all eternity.

 

The butler announced the names of the people whom Molly assumed were the groom’s parents.

 

Molly was sure that she had never seen two more gracefully wealthy people in her life as they walked in, and they greeted her grandparents in so friendly a manner that Molly almost felt sorry that their son was marrying her cousin.

 

Then the butler stepped forward again to introduce the groom, and Molly’s attention was diverted completely from his parents.

 

‘Lord William Sherlock Holmes.’

 

Molly’s eyes widened, positive she’d heard wrong. It was a coincidence; it had to be a coincidence, she repeated to herself as she tightened her grip on Mary’s hand.

 

But Molly’s blood ran cold when her Mr Holmes entered the room, and she realised that he was Jasmine’s Lord Holmes instead. 

 

The black curls had been neatened since the train, and his attire had been changed into something more suitable for the evening. But those eyes that had so captivated her were identical to the ones of the stranger before her now, as they swept the room and eventually landed on her.

 

She saw the exact moment of recognition, the shock on his face as he realised that his deceit (as far as she was concerned) had been discovered. Molly felt instantly sick, unbeknownst to the room full of people who would never understand the gravity of that moment for two of the crowd.

 

‘Excuse me,’ she whispered, her eyes downcast as she ran away from the confusion of those assembled.

 

Putting distance between herself and the one man who didn’t need to be confused at all.


	2. Chapter Two

Molly put off coming down to breakfast the next morning, lying in bed for as long as possible before she began to run the risk of a servant coming to wake her, even though they would have found that unnecessary. 

Molly had barely slept at all, and what little sleep she managed to get had been plagued by nightmares: of brides and grooms getting married, pounding on the doors of locked churches, and whole ballrooms laughing and pointing as she ran away. 

Or worse, she dreamed instead, her mind straying to dangerous places, where a man ghosted his hands down her body reverently, pressing his beautiful lips along the column of her neck. 

Eventually, she’d given up trying to rest at all, watching the sun set and rise again passionlessly, as she realised too late that she had failed to close the curtains.

Molly dragged herself out of bed, dressing slowly as the sounds of the rest of the house breakfasting wafted up the stairs. She hadn’t seen a single soul since she ran out of the ballroom the night before, but she supposed that facing them all together wouldn’t be as bad as being cornered by Mary alone, who would undoubtedly ask the more direct questions that Molly knew she would be unable to answer. 

She still couldn’t believe the audacity of the man, this Lord Holmes, who had acted on the train as so much the opposite of an engaged man that she had half a mind to inform her grandfather of his behaviour. 

Then she remembered the softness that he’d exhibited when they’d parted, which she still believed to be genuine in spite of herself, and she was plunged into such consuming confusion that she was forced to revert back to anger to alleviate the aching in her temple. 

Molly descended the stairs quietly, comforted in part by being back in the house where she’d spent most of her adolescence, and where her mother before her had also grown up, in the very room that Molly now used. She always felt closer to her mother when she was here, and the weight of the locket around her neck that held her parent’s pictures always lightened considerably, as if she didn’t need to carry around the link to the wholly happy part of her childhood in this big house, infused with her mother’s memory in a way that the vast city where she lived now was not. 

She pushed open the door to the dining room, meeting her grandparents’ butler Frederick on the way in to the room. He nodded to her in greeting, and she smiled warmly back: he had been a regular fixture in the house since her infancy, and a calming influence now that her stomach was in knots. 

‘Molly, dear, I was just about to send someone to wake you,’ her grandfather stood when she entered, walking over to kiss her cheek in greeting. She beamed up at him, and allowed herself to be led over to the dining table, adorned with every breakfast food that Molly had ever seen. 

It appeared that the morning train had bought two new additions to the wedding party, as two men were at the table whom she had never seen before. They both stood upon her entrance, and her grandfather took her to them to make the introductions. 

‘Gentlemen, this is my youngest granddaughter, Dr Margaret Hooper-’ 

‘Grandfather,’ Molly warned amiably, well used to Lord Geoffrey’s tendency to emphasise the nature of her profession.

‘I apologise, my dear, but that is your proper title, after all,’ he said teasingly. ‘Gentlemen, this is my granddaughter, Miss Margaret, although she prefers Molly,’ she nodded her assent, thoroughly detesting her proper name. ‘Molly, this is Lord Mycroft Holmes, our groom’s brother,’ he gestured to the older man, who bowed politely while she curtsied. ‘And this is Dr John Watson, the… best man, I believe?’ Dr Watson nodded, and greeted her as Lord Holmes had, although his face was adorned with a warmer smile than the other man. 

Once she had been properly introduced, she took the chair beside her grandfather, squeezing his hand briefly. She knew that he appreciated her being there, and she was glad that her presence comforted him even if she would have preferred to be absent. 

However, it was harder to have this view when Jasmine began an unnecessarily detailed description of her bouquet, and as Molly looked around the table, she found that everyone was similarly indifferent. 

Everyone thankfully did not include the younger Lord Holmes, who was not present, and his parents were missing also. She supposed that her grandfather had sent breakfast up to them, so as not to burden the elderly couple with rising early to join them. 

She prayed that he had bestowed the same courtesy upon the groom. 

Meanwhile, her grandmother was probably still in her room, as she often complained of headaches that seemed to coincide suspiciously with Molly’s visits. 

At least Mary was at the furthest end of the table, but Molly noted that she was quite distracted by Dr Watson, who was sat beside her. He had seemed a very pleasant man, and Molly vowed that she would do her best to further the man’s acquaintance with her cousin should the opportunity present itself. 

Adjacent to Dr Watson was the other Lord Holmes, and Molly observed him for a few moments until she was confident that her earlier impression of him had been correct. He exuded certain superiority, as much in his manner as in the way he was dressed: in formal day clothes that she had only ever seen on governmental ministers. He looked so uncomfortable in this relaxed setting that she couldn’t help but pity him, so she resolved to engage him in conversation when Jasmine’s monologue lulled. 

‘How was your journey, Lord Holmes?’ She inquired politely, catching sight of her grandfather’s relieved expression as she moved the discussion away from the grasp of her eldest cousin. 

‘Quite well, Miss Hooper, thank you. I rarely have occasion to leave London. It is more pleasant in the countryside than I expected,’ she noticed that there was a consistent double meaning to his words, as if he wanted to remind her of his own position of authority over her by reminding her of her own humble origins in this small rural community.

‘I quite agree. I myself live in the city, and I am constantly surprised by how much I benefit from some fresh air and a little bit of space,’ she replied calmly, taking a delicate sip of tea. 

‘This is why, my dear, I continue to encourage you to move back to the country,’ Lord Geoffrey said amiably, covering her hand with his. 

‘You are quite impossible,’ she replied, laughing at his perseverance, as he had done nothing short of begging her to return to Derby ever since she’d left for London several years ago. 

‘We do not see enough of you, Molly. Isn’t that right, Mary?’ Molly looked to her cousin, who extracted herself from, Dr Watson long enough to nod enthusiastically. Molly smiled at their attempts to gang up on her, which happened every time she visited. 

‘I’m sorry, Grandfather, but I could never desert my patients. No matter how much I love it here,’ Lord Geoffrey held up his hands in surrender, deferring to the blank Lord Holmes beside him, who responded with a thin smile that resembled more of a grimace. 

Molly was amused by this gentleman, rather than offended, as he was so acutely out of his comfort zone that he looked legitimately frightened. She exchanged glances with Lord Geoffrey, who seemed to share her view, before she returned quietly to the porridge in front of her. 

‘Miss Hooper,’ she looked at him, surprised that he wanted to speak to her, although she tried her best to conceal that. ‘What area of medicine are you involved in?’ 

‘I’m a physician,’ she answered, content that Lord Holmes wasn’t looking to mock her as so many had before. ‘My patients are mainly women, usually pregnant, because that is technically the period where women receive the most medical care. I wish this were not the case, but I often find there is little I can do.’ It was true that this was becoming more of an issue, as most of the women she saw had underlying health concerns that affected their pregnancies, which could have been remedied much earlier if Molly had seen them before they were with child. 

‘That is very interesting, Miss Hooper. Why do you think women are so reluctant to seek treatment?’ She blinked, unused to someone expressing such interest in her career. 

‘To be frank, many simply cannot afford it, and would prefer to use home remedies rather than seeing a physician. One of my patients had never been to see a qualified medical professional in her life until she suffered complications in her pregnancy, and she could never have afforded the treatment she needed.’ Molly rarely found herself able to speak so freely, but this particular issue was one so important to her that she seemed to forget herself. Lord Holmes studied her for a moment before he replied. 

‘Do you mean to say that you treated her for free?’ She blushed, realising what she’d accidentally revealed. Still, she nodded, and was gratified that Lord Holmes didn’t accuse her of wasting medical resources on the undeserving, as her colleagues would if they found out. 

They were interrupted when her grandfather stood, directing their attention to the door, as Molly realised that someone had entered. She felt her cheeks grow warm when she saw that the groom was standing in the corner, wondering vaguely how long he’d been there, and whether he’d heard her conversation with his brother. 

The younger Lord Holmes walked briskly to the table, shaking Lord Geoffrey’s hand and greeting his brother and best friend. Then her grandfather showed him to the only free seat in the room, and she recognised with horror that it was directly beside her. 

Molly’s skin burned as he placed himself in his seat, and she flinched when his arm brushed against hers. He looked even more handsome than he had the day before, and she mentally accused him of doing that on purpose to make their meeting even more excruciating for her. 

‘Molly,’ she tried to bury herself in her breakfast, but now that she had been specifically addressed she had no choice but to turn to her grandfather, who moved away from the man who had taken his (infuriatingly close-by) seat. ‘I don’t believe you and Lord Holmes have been introduced.’ Lord Geoffrey had no idea how much Molly wished he was right. 

‘No, Grandfather, we haven’t,’ she said quickly, before Lord Holmes could contradict the older man. 

‘That reminds me, my dear, you left very abruptly last night-’ 

‘I had a headache,’ she lied, aware that the whole room’s eyes were on her. 

‘Well, are you all right now?’ Lord Geoffrey asked, concerned. She nodded, and his creased brow smoothed out once he was satisfied. ‘Excellent. Anyway, I must introduce you now. You are soon to be related, after all,’ Lord Holmes and Molly stiffened in unison, although her grandfather thankfully didn’t notice. ‘Lord Holmes, this is Dr- I am only joking, my dear,’ Lord Geoffrey laughed at his granddaughter’s expression, and she smiled uneasily, as Sherlock looked impassively at his lap. ‘Miss Molly Hooper, Jasmine’s youngest cousin.’ Sherlock nodded politely, but she turned abruptly away as soon as she had acknowledged him. 

‘I think I may go for a walk,’ she announced as cheerfully as possible, standing slowly with a forced smile on her face. 

‘But you’ve hardly touched your breakfast,’ Lord Geoffrey was clearly dismayed at the prospect of listening to Jasmine alone, but Molly couldn’t bear to sit beside Lord Holmes any longer. She began to back away from the table, towards the door behind her that led into the large garden surrounding the house. 

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said, feeling like she did when she was a child, and she used to try to escape the dinner table with the same excuse if she was served something with too many vegetables. ‘Anyway, I would quite enjoy stretching my legs after being cooped up in London,’ she reached her hand out for the handle, her way out tantalisingly close. 

‘Would you like some company, dear?’ She realised with mortification that Lord Geoffrey was angling for one of the two bachelors at the table to go with her, and she quickly protested, wishing that he would just let her go. 

‘No! No. I would prefer to be alone,’ she finished quietly, finally opening the door when her grandfather nodded and sat back down, indicating that she was excused. 

Those left suffered the cold breeze that her departure brought into the room, as the door shut firmly behind her. 

Sherlock felt the cold more acutely than any of them, an uncomfortable prickling sensation on the back of his neck attuning him to the fact that his brother was scrutinising him intently. 

‘Miss Hooper is quite delightful, Geoffrey,’ Mycroft offered after a while, although his formal tone didn’t fully equate with what he had said. ‘You must be very proud of her.’ Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, confident that Mycroft had never described anyone as ‘delightful’ before, let alone a person of the opposite sex. 

‘Thank you; I am,’ Lord Geoffrey replied humbly, genuinely pleased by Mycroft’s praise. 

Sherlock could not claim that he felt the same. 

‘You should be careful, Lord Geoffrey,’ Sherlock said slowly, so that only his brother noticed that he was speaking through gritted teeth, ‘you may have another wedding to organise before long.’ He smiled coldly at Mycroft, hoping he was making his feelings very clear, but his anger intensified when his brother merely looked vindicated by his reaction. 

‘You are humorous, brother, but not all men are as inclined towards domesticity as you appear to be,’ Mycroft smiled unnaturally as he gestured to Jasmine, and Sherlock scowled while his fiancé simpered unattractively. Lord Geoffrey chuckled, and Sherlock flicked his gaze back to their host in mild surprise, as he had forgotten that the man was there. 

‘I’m afraid you wouldn’t have much chance with my Molly anyway.’ Sherlock may have overlooked Lord Geoffrey only a moment before, but now the man had his undivided attention. 

‘Is that so?’ Mycroft asked uninterestedly, while the older man nodded remorsefully. 

‘Yes, she’s always been very career driven. I suppose it’s my fault for encouraging her to get an education, but a part of me does wish that she would settle down. She was always very independent, even as a child, so she’ll have to make that decision once she’s ready.’ They remained silent, and after a while Lord Geoffrey finished his thought. ‘I do think it would take a very special man to change her mind, Lord Holmes, so if you think you’re up to the challenge then be my guest.’ 

For a moment, Sherlock wasn’t sure which Lord Holmes he was talking to. 

******

‘And then Miss Mary said that she was glad that I was the best man, because she had been worried about who she would have to dance with at the reception, but now she’d met me she was quite looking forward to it!’ Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned away from John’s gleeful expression, pacing in front of the large window in his room as he only half-listened to what his friend was saying. 

John had launched into a laborious dissection of his conversation with Jasmine’s younger sister as soon as they’d left the dining room, and he had yet to cease despite the fact that they’d been alone for over half an hour. 

Sherlock had been initially grateful that his friend was taking over most of the conversation, as it allowed him to mull over exactly how he was going to get himself out of this situation: out of marrying a woman that he legitimately couldn’t even stand to sit beside. 

Now he was desperate for John to be quiet, because his head was starting to hurt as it launched an internal attack on the part of him that couldn’t quite remove the distraction of Miss Molly Hooper. 

‘John,’ he said tersely, when his friend began to explain for the fourth time how Mary had asked him to pass her the sugar, and their fingers had brushed in the exchange. 

‘Right, yes, sorry,’ John withdrew bashfully, and Sherlock fell onto the four-poster bed, idly wondering how many days it had been since he slept. ‘I must say though Holmes, your marriage already looks very successful from where I’m sitting.’ Sherlock sat up to glare at him, but John was still grinning to himself, and failed to notice. ‘I’ve only been here for breakfast and I’m already enjoying myself.’ 

‘Excellent,’ Sherlock replied unenthusiastically, concluding that John was of no use to him in this indoctrinated state. He never could understand his friend’s behaviour when it came to women, as he always seemed to lose what little rationality he possessed wherever they were involved.

‘Lord Geoffrey is a very agreeable man, Sherlock,’ John continued, ‘and his youngest granddaughter seemed very pleasant from what little I saw of her,’ Sherlock immediately tensed at the mention of Molly, his eyes boring holes into the scarlet canopy above him. ‘She did seem rather skittish, though, left quite abruptly,’ John paused, thinking, ‘did the same last night too apparently, Mary mentioned that she retired just after you arrived?’ Sherlock was silent, not trusting himself to reply. ‘It’s almost like you have a repellent effect on her,’ John said blithely, chuckling at the notion. 

‘You have no idea,’ Sherlock muttered darkly, but John seemed not to have heard him. 

‘Anyway, she was quite spirited before you came in. Lectured Mycroft about women receiving insufficient medical care. I think he was rather taken aback by it all,’ Sherlock sat up, looking quite mad with his mussed hair and wide eyes. 

‘She did?’ 

‘Oh yes. I quite agreed with her, myself. I have virtually no female patients at all, pregnant or no-’ John went on, but Sherlock had stopped listening, wearing out the carpet with his neurotic movements. His brain buzzed unpleasantly, and he made the decision to come clean, trusting that John would know what to do. 

‘John.’ Sherlock placed himself in the second armchair in the room, unaware that he had just interrupted. 

‘You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?’ John asked peevishly. 

‘What?’ 

‘You haven’t been listening.’ 

‘Oh. No, I haven’t,’ John huffed, but Sherlock went on. ‘I met her before,’ he said wildly, frustrated when John looked at him confusion. 

‘Who? Mary?’ John visibly perked up, and Sherlock wanted to hit him. 

‘No! Molly!’ 

‘Molly? Molly Hooper? As in Dr Molly Hooper, your fiancé’s cousin?’ 

‘Yes!’ 

‘How?’ 

‘The train. We met on the train on the way up, and I was awful at first,’ John pulled a face to show that this did not at all surprise him, ‘but we became acquainted, and she’s interested in my work, and intelligent, and engaging, and-’ Sherlock threw up his hands, clearly at a loss. John raised his eyebrows, never having seen his friend in such a state. 

‘Have you fallen for her?’ He asked bluntly, shocked when Sherlock hesitated. ‘Because you do know that you’re engaged to her cousin? To be married? That you’re going to marry her cousin in less than a week’s time?’ 

‘Yes, John, I’m well aware!’ Sherlock hissed, wishing he’d never mentioned it. 

‘So what is this really about?’ 

‘I have never felt this way before, John,’ Sherlock said in frustration, ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me. My brain… it feels like there’s a current running through it, and it won’t slow down, it will not stop… moving,’ Sherlock fisted his hands in his hair, and John watched him quietly, before comprehension dawned on his face.

‘I know what this is about,’ John said assuredly, and Sherlock felt his hopes increase a small amount. ‘You’re having second thoughts about arranged marriage.’ Sherlock buried his head in his hands, but John continued, undeterred. ‘You barely know Jasmine, so you’ve convinced yourself that Miss Molly would be a better match for you because of one conversation you’ve had with her,’ John leaned forward eagerly. ‘Holmes, you really should not worry. All you need to do spend more time with Jasmine, and I am sure you will forget totally about whatever feelings you thought you had for her cousin.’ 

‘You don’t understand,’ Sherlock said desperately, as John looked on him with sympathy. 

Sherlock doubted that John would have offered the same advice if he knew about the way Sherlock’s heart had lurched when he saw her for the first time, or how his chest became constricted when he thought of the way she’d looked at him when he’d walked into the ballroom the night before. Even his reaction to Mycroft’s casual compliment of Molly was wholly out of character, and he could still feel the slow burn on the back of his neck when he considered the idea of his brother finding her appealing. 

‘Trust me, Sherlock, you are nervous. It will pass,’ Sherlock didn’t respond, sitting back in the armchair as his exhaustion began to catch up to him. ‘God, man, how long has it been since you slept?’ Sherlock shrugged tiredly, undoing his top button with shaking hands. 

‘Days?’ He breathed out, his eyes already closing, as he heard John stand and open the door. 

‘Well get some rest,’ John said, and Sherlock nodded sleepily, ‘I shall send someone to rouse you for dinner,’ he sounded far too cheerful, but Sherlock supposed he had plans to accidentally run into Mary, which would explain it. John didn’t wait for a reply, and he left just as Sherlock dragged himself over to the bed. 

He collapsed onto it, not even bothering to undress, his mind offering up images as sleep washed over his body. 

He dreamed that he was back at Baker Street, walking past a kitchen table with experiments sprawled over the surface. He pushed open the door, the twilight shining in through the window, basking his bedroom in an orange glow that curled around the figure in his bed. 

He came closer, pulling aside the covers as he slipped onto the mattress, lifting his hand to push a strand of his bedfellow’s chestnut hair from her face. He grazed his fingers down her bare arm, tracing the soft curve of her hip before the sheets halted his languid exploration. 

She exhaled at his touch, shifting her head closer to his on the pillow, until there was barely an inch of space separating them. 

So Sherlock closed the distance, pressing his lips to Molly Hooper’s, her eyes flickering open just as his snapped shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I've been away for the past week and I wanted to do some editing before I posted the chapter. I hope it was worth it! There wasn't a great deal of interaction between Sherlock and Molly, but I wanted to introduce Sherlock's perspective along with John and Mycroft, so I hope you don't mind. 
> 
> Thank you so much for everyone who has commented or given me kudos on this story so far, and hopefully the next chapter will be up very soon!


	3. Chapter Three

When she considered it rationally, Molly could precisely identify what had led her here.

 

She had been present when Mary had made the suggestion of a walk, and was therefore immediately aware that it was not a general invitation- unlike the remainder of her family.

 

For a while, Molly pitied the fact that they were all encroaching on Mary’s opportunity to get to know Dr Watson better, cringing at Jasmine’s monopoly on the conversation when it was clear that the couple only wished to speak to each other.

 

Now, she wished to portion blame.

 

And she had identified the three key people at fault.

 

First: Mary, for bringing them here.

 

Second: her grandfather, for forcing her to attend.

 

And Lord Sherlock Holmes. For everything.

 

Molly tipped her head heavenward, breathing in the clean country air in attempt to calm herself, even though the blue sky had a peculiar red tinge under the intensity of her glare.

 

She wished that she could expel her fury in a more directive manner, preferably by sending the object of her rage into one of the tempting muddy patches that they had passed, without a care for the issues of propriety that had hatefully restrained her.

 

Instead, she was forced to bestow upon him a politeness that he certainly did not deserve, and swallow the effusive cocktail of hurt and anger that swirled within her at the sheer thought of him.

 

‘Miss Hooper,’ the voice sounded so close to her ear that she jumped, looking up at the elder Lord Holmes in surprise as he stood erectly beside her.

 

‘Lord Holmes,’ it came out more squeakily than she had intended, but her companion’s face remained impassive as if she had not spoken at all.

 

‘I wonder if you could remind me, Miss Hooper, exactly what we are doing here?’ He said in an undertone, raising a pipe (a habit that Molly thought he had concealed well) to his lips.

 

‘I was just considering the same myself,’ she replied, staring straight ahead as Lord Mycroft blew his smoke delicately in the opposite direction. ‘Perhaps they believe we need the exercise?’ They exchanged glances, and Molly suppressed a grin at the obvious disgust on his face.

 

‘I am more confused as to what purpose you and I specifically serve by being here. We are rather out of sorts, are we not?’ He paused to suck in another lungful of tobacco. ‘Stuck in the company of two couples who should not require our presence.’ Molly waited until his cloud of smoke had disappeared before she responded.

 

‘In that case, I expect my grandfather wishes to throw us together until we form one partnership more.’ She said this as calmly as possible, but every second that passed until he allowed her a small smile was spent in nothing short of panic.

 

‘I hope that I will not have to let you down gently as to the unlikelihood of that outcome.’ The corners of her mouth upturned, and she trained her eyes on the tips of her feet just visible below her skirt.

 

‘You have relieved me, Lord Holmes, that now I will not have to do the same for you.’ He laughed then, and the noise was so genuine that she looked at him in mild surprise.

 

They watched each other for a moment, and Molly felt just as undone by his gaze as she had felt by his brother’s. The reminder recalled the mixture of emotions that had so recently plagued her, and she hoped that they had not surfaced in her eyes for Mycroft to see.

 

‘I knew before that your feelings had already been disquieted by another.’

 

She blinked, wondering if the words uttered so lowly had not been added in by her imagination, when a loud scream caught both of their attentions.

 

They searched for the source of the noise, and started back to the rest of their group: Molly’s heart thumping loudly in her chest all the while.

 

Frantic voices led them to the clearing where the rest of the party waited, and Molly’s panic cooled somewhat when she saw that the sound had issued from Jasmine, who was on the ground clutching her ankle.

 

Molly kneeled quietly beside her cousin, attempting to gain a better look at the injury. Jasmine had been expressing annoyance that no one had come to her aid in time to impede her fall, but when she saw that Molly was trying to help she pulled her leg sharply away.

 

‘I demand to see a real doctor,’ she said juvenilely. ‘Dr Watson?!’

 

Molly jumped up with the alacrity of a burn victim, her flushed cheeks evidence of a kind of scalding as she distanced herself from her cousin. She was so eager to depart the scene that she failed to look in the correct direction, and she felt a lurching in her stomach as an exposed root nearly placed her in the same position as Jasmine.

 

Strong hands gripped her waist as she collapsed into a firm body, gravity returning to her when her saviour placed her back on her feet.

 

‘Thank y-’ she began, but the words were ripped from her throat when she saw who was behind her, and tears stung her eyes instead.

 

‘Quite all right, Miss Hooper,’ Sherlock replied stiffly, his eyes fixed on a point just over her shoulder. He dropped his hold on her, and she stumbled from the loss of his support for a moment, her vision of his tie blurred. ‘Excuse me.’

 

He flew past her, and Molly focused herself on the bark of the tree in front of her as she collected her emotions. Her fingers brushed away what little evidence there was of her discomposure, and she quit the clearing to head in the direction of their carriage to see what could be done in moving Jasmine from the forest.

 

But she could not erase the ghost of his touch so easily, and her hands shook long after the coachman had followed her direction to aid the participants in the little crisis from which she had fled.

 

******

 

Sherlock lay unmoving on the couch in the library, his hands steepled beneath his chin, unaware of the darkness that he had been gradually plunged into since his initial entrance.

 

He had flung himself into the room as soon as dinner had finished, the first to quit the table that had been dominated by account after account of the manner in which their walk had ended.

 

The elder occupants of the house had stayed behind, and were thus interested in these events, but Sherlock could not have regarded Jasmine’s fall with more insignificance when he compared it to what occurred directly after.

 

He was aware that his behaviour towards Miss Hooper had been greatly inappropriate, and he was immeasurably grateful that everyone else had been too distracted to take note of it.

 

What had possessed him to engage with her in such a way? To retain his hold on her even though the immediate danger of her falling had passed?

 

The decision to hinder her descent had been purely instinctual, and it was only the sudden insistent beating of his heart that alerted him to the fact that he had reacted at all.

 

This unnerved him, as the reliance on intuition suggested a rashness of decision-making: wholly incompatible with methodical science of deduction. It showed a lack of control over one’s own actions, and Sherlock did not enjoy not being in control.

 

He should have directed his frustration at the recesses of his unconscious that had triggered the spontaneous reaction of that afternoon, but his irritation could only focus on Molly Hooper: the sole cause of the insanity that had seeped into his once perfectly ordered mind.

 

He had believed that sleep would cure the turmoil that he had displayed during his conversation with John, but it had only internalised the chaos- so he vowed that tonight he would not fall into its trap again.

 

Instead, he would focus on bringing himself back to his senses, and try to delete the woman who had consumed him for _every waking moment of_ -

 

Sherlock was brought out of his mind palace by the sound of the door opening, and he blinked furiously as his eyes became adjusted to the darkness of the room.

 

The sole source of light derived from the doorway, and Sherlock recognised the outline of a figure behind the oil lamp that floated into the library.

 

He remained silent as the person shut the door behind them, surprised that anyone would venture down here at what he guessed was a late hour, and watched in a kind of trance as the lamp was set down on the table before him.

 

Sherlock jumped up when his eyes met those of the intruder’s, her brown orbs widening at the sight of him.

 

‘Molly.’ Her name slipped from his mouth with ease, and he was embarrassingly aware that he had dispensed formalities, just as his inner monologue had begun to.

 

She emitted a strangled noise and turned to face the exit, but his hand reached for her once again without his permission. He encircled her slender wrist, applying slight pressure; regardless, she had stopped dead as soon as he touched her.

 

‘Don’t,’ he murmured, and tugged her gently towards him. ‘Wait. Please.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Come and berate me for my tardiness on Tumblr! (@AquaFontem) :)


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Liathwen, who mentioned this fic on a fic rec thing on Tumblr. I got all excited, and this is my thanks. I hope it is sufficient.

_‘Mycroft, why do people get married?’ Sherlock curled his knees under his nightgown, shifting onto his side as Mycroft sat down in the chair beside the bed._

_‘Boredom. Stop sucking your thumb.’ The little boy released the digit from his mouth huffily._

_‘I’m always bored. Does that mean I’ll have to get married?’ Mycroft chuckled at the genuine fear etched on his brother’s face, pulling up the duvet until it reached Sherlock’s chin._

_‘No, Sherlock,’ Mycroft sighed, ‘I suppose marriages do occur for… other reasons.’_

_‘What reasons?’ The elder Holmes cleared his throat uncomfortably, flicking his eyes to the door in the hope that an adult would come and save him from this conversation._

_‘I don’t know, Sherlock. Sentiment?’_

_‘Sentiment.’ Sherlock tasted the word thoughtfully, quiet long enough that Mycroft hoped he was asleep. ‘Didn’t you say that sentiment was a chemical desect found on the losing side?’_

_‘Defect,’ Mycroft corrected, rising slowly as the boy yawned widely, ‘well remembered.’ He reached the threshold of the bedroom and lifted the lamp that a maid had placed on the table beside the door._

_‘I’m never getting married,’ Sherlock murmured sleepily, burrowing his curly head further into the pillow. Mycroft let the statement hang for a while, formulating a response, but light snores saved him._

_‘Goodnight, brother mine,’ he murmured, shutting the door as the little boy slept for the first time in three days. ‘I hope it will be that easy.’_

******

_‘Wait. Please.’_

 

It would be difficult for Molly Hooper to describe with any accuracy exactly how much of a surprise it had been to find the library occupied.

 

It was her- rather morbid- belief, fostered in childhood, that when night fell, all other beings ceased to exist, excluding her.

 

It meant that there could be no monsters under the bed, and it no longer mattered when her waking life blended into the background- the nighttime was hers alone.

 

So when Lord Holmes appeared before her, his low voice wavering through the gloom, her first thought was that she would have to create an exception to her rule.

 

‘Miss Hooper.’ She thought she could feel his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, and the uncertainty ate at her when she wrenched herself free. ‘I must apologise.’ He spoke in a rush, his curls spilling over his forehead wildly, and she stared up at him in bewilderment.

 

Molly could barely hear him through the bubble that seemed to surround her head: lightheadedness pervading her senses when she considered what a world with just the two of them would be like.

 

His mouth was moving, but she studied him instead, like any creature discovering their only other companion for the very first time.

 

The shadows clung to the sharp angles of his face like molten metal pouring into a mould, filling in every crevice in the desire to replicate the painstaking detail of the original design. Whatever the success, darkness failed to stifle his eyes, which were as bright and complex as ever, and the only source of colour in a night that paled in comparison.

 

Molly had been raised on the idea that it was humans who faded into the gloom.

 

It had never been the other way round.

 

‘Are you listening?’ His snappish tone permeated her haze, mild concern in his eyes as she swayed slightly on the spot. He reached for her again, but she took an involuntary step backwards: the action enough to break her wholly from her reverie.

 

‘You were apologising?’ He sighed, and she could feel her wonderment diminishing by the second.

 

‘Yes, my behaviour this afternoon was inappropriate, and I would like to offer my sincere, assured and comprehensive-’ Her noise of dissent quelled this display of contrition before it could reach its natural conclusion.

 

‘Today? You are apologising for your behaviour _today_?’ Molly was equidistant between hysterical laughter and tears: in danger of succumbing to both simultaneously when he looked down at her with unveiled confusion and offence.

 

‘Yes, of course,’ he frowned, ‘I thought this was how it worked?’

 

‘Sorry? How what worked?’ He exhaled impatiently, and her annoyance flared like a struck match at the implication that it was she who was the slow one.

 

‘I believe I have done something to upset you, Miss Hooper, and I would like to rectify that in light of…’ He trailed off, but he had resumed his speech before she thought to pursue the direction of the statement. ‘It may be that your dislike for me is due to a general impression rather than an individual event, but if it is something specific, and is in fact the result of this afternoon in particular, I want to take full responsibility, and ask you to take me at my word when I tell you that I am poorly equipped to deal with other humans.’

 

His earnestness threatened to neutralise her irritation, but he was so incorrect- so infuriatingly oblivious- that even she could not summon the placidity to refrain from checking him.

 

‘A general impression? Lord Holmes,’ he winced again, ‘do you mean to tell me that you do not know why I dislike you?’

 

‘Please call me-’

 

‘Have you forgotten that in the early stages of our acquaintanceship I believed you were someone else? And have you also forgotten that the reason for this was the fact that you hid your identity from me? Until, of course, I discovered who you truly were when you walked into my grandfather’s house as none other than _my cousin’s fiancée_!’ Molly finished in a hiss, her breathing shallow from the gain in momentum as she listed her complaints. He blinked at her in surprise, running a hand through his unruly hair while he formulated a reply.

 

‘I did not _hide_ my identity from you,’ he said eventually, ‘I merely chose not to observe my title, which could be attributed to the same modesty that leads you to revoke yours.’ There was a challenge in his eyes, and she took it up without hesitation.

 

‘Our situations are incomparable. You did more than understate your status when you deliberately chose to ignore the fact that you are engaged!’

 

‘You mistake me, madam,’ his nostrils flared, his stature more imposing accompanied by his anger. ‘I made no calculated attempts to divert you from the truth,’ he paused, ‘and I am not altogether sure how you managed to come to that conclusion.’

 

‘You truly are a scoundrel,’ she drew herself to her full height: now they were two figures squaring up to one another in a darkened library. ‘Is that what you view as amusement? Attempting to seduce strange women when you are well aware of your obligation to someone else?’ He scoffed.

 

‘Seduction? So this is your accusation,’ he grinned ferally, and she wanted to strangle him with his cravat, which hung loosely around his pale neck. ‘It is fortunate that I did not succeed, Miss Hooper, or perhaps you would be in trouble.’

 

Her mouth opened to form an injurious reply, but his lips crushed hers before she could articulate the words.

 

If she had been more present, she would have noted that this was excellent proof of her point, but the press of his body against hers dashed all rational thought from her head.

 

The kiss was not the antithesis to the argument they had been having, as she would have expected, instead she could feel every point being recontested in the way their tongues battled for dominance.

 

His fisted collar was collateral damage, as were the creases in her dressing gown, left by the frantic exploration of his hands. He drew the material away, and she shivered when his fingertips skimmed the small of her back through the thin cotton of her nightdress, forcing her to find purchase in his waistcoat as she pulled herself more insistently against him.

 

He traced a hot path down the side of her neck, teeth grazing delicate skin, before he paused in the crevice between her shoulder and her collarbone. She moaned when he sucked a dark mark there, her nails scraping the embroidered fabric on his back, and she would thank him later for the inconspicuous spot that he had chosen even if she thanked him for little else.

 

Molly drew his lips back up to hers, desperate for the taste of him, but she could not help but notice the softness in the way he kissed her that had not been there before. His touches began to lose their lustful desperation, and he seemed to desire knowledge of her instead, in a manner that had implications far beyond the fit of passion that she believed had brought her here.

 

Still, she was too weak to withstand him, until she felt the pressure of his hands on the back of her legs, declaring his intention to sweep her into his arms.

 

There was a stirring in the pit of her stomach that begged her to relinquish herself to this silent request- to alleviate the need for him that was making itself ever more apparent.

 

Then, reason reminded her that the lean torso, firm shoulders and silk curls beneath her fingers did not, and never would, belong to her.

 

And it was this more than anything else that led her to step back, stumbling out of his arms, her lips still swollen from his kisses.

 

‘Molly?’ It nearly broke her- walking away from him- and the thud as her back hit the door sent rivulets of pain through her body in a manner unrelated to the physical impact.

 

Her mouth opened, trying to form an apology, or an explanation, but it was consumed with the taste of him, and the words remained stale and unsaid.

 

Beneath his confusion, she could see the injury that her rejection was causing: experiencing the same acute pain within her own heart at the possibility that the damage could be irrecoverable.

 

But the door shut behind her, and she could not even allow herself the finality of closing it soundly, loathe to disturb the peace of her surroundings, in spite of the voracity of her emotional turmoil.

 

Because Molly Hooper did not break, or disturb, or mark things.

 

She left them, behind oak doors, imprisoned in a room full of books, with the lamp she had forgotten to take with her extinguished on a table.

 

******

 

Elsewhere, Lord Mycroft Holmes jolted awake, stranded in the centre of his bed.

 

He stretched out, pressing each palm to the mattress, hissing when the frigidity of the material kissed his skin.

 

He thought he could hear noises in the house- voices perhaps- but they were too dim to place, and he could feel fatigue blurring the usually sharp perimeters of his mind.

 

Sighing, he settled on his side again, and allowed his eyes to drift shut.

 

Involuntarily, he drew both of his hands to his chest, clasping them primly over his heart.

 

Then sleep claimed him, sending him to meetings with the Queen without trousers, into rainstorms without an umbrella, or marooned on a four-poster bed with only a six-year-old to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long: life got in the way majorly. Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope it was worth the wait! I'm AquaFontem on Tumblr, and I'll start posting little drabbles on AquaScriptus (side blog) soon if you are interested in following that! :)


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of drug use/abuse

It was the breathy exhalation of his name that woke him. 

The sound of her voice had been so vivid that his body had taken pity on him, rousing him from his dream before his grip on reality was severed entirely. 

Sherlock had come close to that before, in surroundings vastly different from his present environment, from a stimulus wholly removed from this current cause. 

She was not like the opium of his recent past: accompanied by the slow desensitisation of his faculties, rendering him indolent and witless. 

She had left him with memory. 

The taste of her lingered in his mouth, the ghost of her curves haunted his hands, and the back of his neck tingled where her fingertips had dug in insistently. 

He was unused to the intensity of such feelings, bewildered by the extent of his physical attraction to Molly Hooper, powerless to resist the temptation to revisit the occasion when this attraction had been realised. 

She had left him with his memory, and unscathed senses, in a way no substance ever had. 

But the rising frustration, the growing want, the onset of a seemingly unappeasable craving: all this was familiar. 

The sheets clung to him unwontedly, and the pillow was abrasive beneath his cheek; but he burrowed himself further into the bed, until the world outside his chamber felt sufficiently distant. 

Her voice sounded in his mind palace again, and he followed it to the room in which he had placed her, where he stood quietly in the doorway, content merely to watch her for a while. 

She was facing away from him, in the dress she had worn on the day he met her, busy sorting something away in a drawer that looked suspiciously like the one in his sitting room in Baker Street. 

‘Sherlock!’ She had turned around, a smile lighting up her expression when she saw him, but she stayed where she was in the centre of the room. 

‘Molly,’ he exhaled, and he stepped towards her, closing the door firmly behind him. 

******

Molly had always had a fondness for her grandfather’s garden. 

When this estate had been her permanent home, she had spent more time in its environs than she had the house itself (the one possible exception being the library, which she was decidedly pushing from her mind), including a whole summer where she had sneaked out every night to find a new place to sleep outdoors, much to the chagrin of her grandparents. Her grandmother had attempted to lock her in, but she found a book that taught her how to pick locks, and that had posed an obstacle no longer. 

The previous night she had felt the old pull of this garden more acutely than ever before, longing for curved and weathered branches to replace the looming blood-red fabric of her bed hangings, and an open sky unsusceptible to the ominous shadows cast across her walls and ceilings. 

Still, Molly was more decorous (in this matter, at least) than she had been as a child, and more aware of the embarrassment that would result if one of their guests found her asleep on a bench during an early morning walk. 

At the first hint of light stealing into her room, Molly finally freed herself, dressing so quickly that she had left her room before the first finger of sunlight could be joined by another. 

Now, after several hours, her room would be fairly bathed in warmth, but she was unable to enjoy it, contained as she was by this self-imposed exile. 

Breakfast had long since ended, and her absence had no doubt angered her grandmother: who observed all domestic ceremonies, and included a morning meal among them. 

The decision to miss it, however, had been a deliberate scheme of self-preservation, because, even as she longed to see Lord Holmes again, she could anticipate the pain that would undoubtedly follow such an encounter. 

‘Molly!’ She was jolted from her thoughts by the voice of her cousin, followed by the appearance of Mary herself out of the thatch of trees that surrounded the bench on which Molly sat. ‘I’ve been wondering where you are all morning!’ 

Mary, ever affectionate, pulled her into an embrace, which offered Molly some comfort after the vexation of the preceding morning and night. 

‘You always did get up at the crack of dawn,’ Mary looped Molly’s arm through hers, and they began to walk, thankfully not in the direction of the house. ‘It used to put Jas and I to shame, lying in bed all the hours we could get.’ 

‘How is Jasmine?’ Molly asked absentmindedly, skimming her fingers over the bark of the trees running alongside her. 

‘Suffering and suffered in equal measures,’ Mary smiled. ‘She tried to plead bed rest this morning, on account of her foot, but once she heard about the ball tomorrow she insisted that she would be fit for it.’ 

‘A ball?’ Molly grimaced: she disliked social gatherings as a rule, and found balls the most contrived of them all. 

‘Yes, at the Warners’. Jo-Dr Watson said Jasmine’s was the speediest recovery he’d ever seen.’ Molly suppressed a smile at her cousin’s slip, deciding that some light teasing was in order. 

‘Dr Watson is a most agreeable man, is he not?’ Mary did not seem to trust herself to reply, so Molly carried on happily. ‘And such a gentleman. It is a wonder that he has remained single for so long, considering all of his admirable traits and qualities-’

‘Oh, stop it, Molly,’ Mary entreated her with a laugh. ‘I know what you mean by all this, but I will not succumb so readily.’ Molly allowed her features to betray her amusement, and her own burdensome melancholy lessened as a result. 

‘I was merely commenting that Dr Watson is a very nice man,’ Molly grinned mischievously, and squeezed Mary’s arm closer to her side. ‘That could not have escaped your notice, cousin-’ Mary silenced her with a glare, and Molly directed a conspiratorial smile to the ground in the absence of a human ally.

‘Dr Watson,’ Mary intoned steadily, choosing her words carefully, ‘is a very nice man- which has been brought to my attention- but there is no reason why-’

‘You shouldn’t fall madly in love with him-’ 

A momentary loss of balance was the price of that statement, as Mary nudged Molly playfully away: the former compelled to respond with (admittedly artificial) outrage, in order to preserve her dignity. 

‘Dearest Mary,’ Molly continued, when her cousin allowed her to return to her side, ‘you do not need to conceal your feelings from me.’ 

‘I know,’ Mary’s smile was carefree when she turned to look at her companion. ‘I think I love him, Molly.’ In that moment, Molly could not be anything other than gloriously happy for her cousin, who so deserved, in her eyes, to love and be loved in return. 

She voiced as much in her reply, which inspired a great deal of blushing; but Molly was gratified that Mary did not seem to believe that confiding in her had been a waste of time. 

Molly desperately wished that she could return the favour, envisioning the relief that could come with talking as candidly with Mary as she had as a child.

Yet, in her heart, she knew that what she had to say would challenge her cousin’s view of her, and reduce her in Mary’s eyes, which she knew she would be unable to bear. 

Molly allowed her cousin to steer the conversation away, but her mind lingered, primarily on the fact that this was something she would have to deal with alone. 

******

‘I need to get out of this marriage.’

‘Must we have this conversation again, brother mine? It’s becoming rather tiresome.’ Lord Mycroft Holmes looked up from his desk calmly, his expression impassive as his brother shut the door and took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs before him. 

‘We shall have it repeatedly until you fix the mess that you have got me into,’ Sherlock’s countenance was cool as he said this, but Mycroft could sense the anger that boiled just under the surface. 

‘My answer is what it has been all week, and every month since your engagement to Miss Jasmine was announced: nothing can be done, Sherlock.’ 

‘My brother, the defeatist,’ Sherlock murmured mockingly.

‘My brother, the romantic,’ Mycroft returned, with equal disdain. ‘Does it upset you that your betrothed is not the one Hooper girl whom you love?’ 

‘I am not in love wi-’ The words slipped out as a reflex, so used was he to denying that he could be capable of loving anyone. He stopped himself, but only partly because he wished to avoid his brother’s carefully placed bait, as he realised that perhaps his own statement was not even true. 

‘Aren’t you?’ Mycroft paused, but his brother refused to meet his eye. ‘Sentiment has always been your weakness, Sherlock,’ he murmured with a sigh, and suddenly the younger Holmes’ gaze snapped to attention. 

‘Is this supposed to cure me, then?’ Sherlock replied bitterly. ‘You wish to marry me to a woman whom I could never feel any affection for, to prove to me that human emotion is an illusion once and for all?’ 

‘No,’ Mycroft’s voice was firm. ‘This marriage is to teach you responsibility, because you seem to have forgotten that you hold an esteemed family name, which is tarnished every time you act thoughtlessly-’ 

‘So it comes, as ever, to protecting the Holmes’ reputation.’ Mycroft rose to face the window, turning his back on his brother in the process. ‘How very dull.’ 

‘You don’t remember being found in that hole of a place, do you?’ Mycroft asked quietly, unaware of the tension that seeped into Sherlock’s muscles at the mention of this subject. ‘You were utterly intoxicated; I don’t recall ever seeing a living man with eyes as dead as yours were, and when they lifted you into the carriage you barely stirred at all. Whatever money you’d had with you had been taken, your clothes were filthy: I had to have them burned after they were removed from you.’ He stopped here, but Sherlock’s memory could fill in the gaps; his awareness had returned to him in time for the anguish of withdrawal, which still stretched on into eternity within a locked room of his mind palace. ‘If your life is bound to another’s perhaps you won’t gamble it away so recklessly.’ 

‘This is not the way to convince me of the worth of my life-’

‘Do you have another suggestion?’ Mycroft twisted around, his expression one of challenge; but it softened when brother did not respond for a protracted length of time. ‘This was done for your own good, Sherlock.’ The elder Lord Holmes sighed. ‘Perhaps marriage will not, one day, be as hateful to you as it is now.’ 

‘Perhaps not,’ was the simple reply, delivered so calmly that Mycroft studied his brother with interest. 

Sherlock’s face was surprising in its serenity, wearing an expression that could only follow from finding the resolution to all of one’s entrenched problems. The sour mood in which he had entered had all but evaporated, and instead, the younger Lord Holmes appeared enlivened with a new determination: the obscurity of which frightened his brother. 

This concern increased tenfold when Sherlock stood abruptly, and strode to the door, which left Mycroft no opportunity to question the man on his intentions. 

‘Goodbye, Mycroft,’ Sherlock murmured before he disappeared from view, leaving his brother in a state of profound confusion, which even four consecutive whiskeys could not fix. 

******

There was to be a second engagement among the Hoopers, Molly predicted, as she shut the door of the drawing room, with Mary and Dr Watson inside. 

She had been reading a medical journal when the doctor had come in, standing nervously just inside the entrance as he requested to speak to Mary alone. 

Lady Hooper and Jasmine, who had also been ousted as part of the request, had already sought other rooms to host them, but Molly chose to linger in the hallway for a moment, her excitement for her cousin rendering her incapable of departing too far. 

She braced herself against the wall, her palms pressed against the ageing wallpaper, fingertips tracing the embossed pattern that she knew from memory to be the sprawling branches of an infinite tree. 

The day was coming to a close without a single sighting of Lord Holmes, and Molly was glad that he seemed to understand the need for separation as well as she did. 

She dismissed the feelings that had passed between them as evident of other things: her own belief that there was not a man on earth whom she could bear to marry, and his desire to escape his engagement to her cousin, which she could well understand. 

Nothing more enduring existed between them: especially not the kind of love that passed between the two people ensconced in the room before her, which transcended the mere physical attraction between Lord Holmes and herself. 

All this Molly repeated to herself as she left the support of the wall, and passed into the dining room down the hall, going in search of a servant from whom she could ask for some tea. 

But these thoughts died away when the door at the end of the room opened, and Lord Sherlock Holmes issued in at an alarming pace. 

She ground to a halt, her eyes wide, and she wondered at the luck of avoiding him all day, only to be faced with him in her single moment of solitude since the garden that morning. 

He, on the other hand, did not appear surprised by her presence, and she had the vague, and rather alarming impression that he had been looking for her. Now that she was before him, she supposed she would find out why, and this filled her with no slight apprehension when he opened his mouth. 

‘I came to Derbyshire to break off my engagement,’ he spoke quickly, as if afraid that something would intervene to prevent him from reaching the end of his speech. ‘I had resolved to inform your grandfather upon my arrival here that I could not marry your cousin, and was prepared to cite a variety of factors in support of this: all of which have become immaterial now,’ Lord Holmes paused, and his voice slowed thereafter. ‘I didn’t see you at first: there were too many people, and I was focused on finding Lord Hooper, but this paled into insignificance when eventually I recognised you,’ he stepped closer, until he was looming over her, but he did not touch her. ‘For all my deductive genius, I still knew too little about you to seek you out myself, but I thought it cruel that we should be reunited under such circumstances. I did not know then, when you left the room, that you believed I had behaved dishonestly; and for that,’ he cleared his throat, ‘I apologise.’ Molly’s eyes pooled with tears, concurrently pained by the reminder of that evening, and overwhelmed by the visible tenderness of his conduct. ‘Once I knew that you were here-’ 

‘Lord Holmes,’ she protested weakly, against what, she had no idea. 

‘I found that I could not leave.’ She sucked in her breath at the admission, and silent tears began to fall down her cheeks. He hesitated before he settled his hand on her cheek, and brushed them away with the pad of his thumb. 

The experience of him this close to her led Molly to completely forget about crying, her tears drying up as her attention shifted to committing every detail to memory. 

He took the hand on her face away slowly, but it was not long before she felt it wrap around her fingers, and they were close enough that his soft breathing meant her cheeks were not wholly bereft of his touch. These tactile sensations were so overwhelming that Molly yearned for something to concentrate on, so she reached for his wrist, keen to feel a steady beat beneath her fingertips, the kind of which her own excited heart was incapable. 

‘Are you checking my pulse?’ He murmured, a small smile beatifying his features. 

‘Perhaps,’ she replied quietly, gasping softly when he pulled her ever nearer to him. 

‘Molly, I-’ 

But the opportunity to finish his sentence was stolen from him, as the sudden sound of the door opening told them that they had been disturbed. 

Molly stepped away just in time to watch Mary and Dr Watson enter, their arms intertwined, and thankfully both unaware of what they had disrupted.

‘Sherlock, Miss Hooper,’ Dr Watson inclined his head to her politely, and she was grateful that her reciprocal curtsey distracted her from staring at Sherlock. ‘How fortunate to find you together: now you can both hear our news at the same time,’ John paused, apparently conscious of building suspense, as he exchanged a beaming smile with Mary. 

Molly waited uncomfortably; aware that Lord Holmes’ gaze remained on her, almost as if their friends were not present at all. 

And if they had not been present, Molly found herself wondering what he would have said to her, beyond that lovely confession that while he was here, he was here for her. 

Dr Watson began speaking, and Molly’s attention grudgingly returned to him.

‘I just asked Mary to be my wife,’ his voice trembled slightly, and Molly found she liked him even more than she had already. ‘Luckily for me, she has accepted.’ 

‘So you are engaged?’ Molly enquired, happiness for her cousin beginning to supplant her frustration at being interrupted. 

‘To be married,’ John confirmed, his eyes, as if he could not help himself, drifting to his fiancée. ‘Yes, we are.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was worth the wait, although I may have induced even more frustration with that interruption at the end! Don't worry: the next chapter should more than make up for it! ;P 
> 
> Thank you for reading this, and kudos-ing and leaving nice comments, and generally keeping me going with this for (literally) months at a time. You are awesome, and I love you. 
> 
> (P.S. Still on Tumblr at AquaFontem)


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to OhAine, for trusting me to fly the Sherlolly flag in her stead at Hamlet. This little fic is all I have to convey just how much I appreciate her kindness, so thank you, Aine! xx (She’s also a mega talented author, so check out her fics on here!) :-)

‘Ladies are not supposed to leave the ballroom alone.’

 

The voice sounded from Molly’s right, startling her from the confines of her mind, where she had been stuck for the entirety of the ball thus far. She had never enjoyed social engagements such as this, and she had indeed been preparing to slip out when this speech stopped her.

 

She turned to find Lord Holmes regarding her from his position at the wall, strangely alone, despite the curiosity of the country society in meeting Jasmine Hooper’s betrothed.

 

He looked well in his dress attire, handsome even, if she could bear to describe him as such. Molly found that he appeared taller to her in his jacket and tails; his hair was more lustrous against the crisp white shirt and tie; and that his hold on her must have been greater than usual considering the length of time that it took her to formulate a reply. 

 

‘Do you propose to stop me?’

 

‘I would much rather dance with you,’ he returned with a grin, springing from the wall to stand directly before her. ‘If you are willing, of course.’

 

‘For propriety’s sake, I suppose I must accept.’

 

She placed her hand in his, and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor as the band began to play a slow waltz.

 

‘You are a very able dancer, Lord Holmes,’ she told him honestly, as they completed their first circuit of the room. It was not quite what she had meant to say, and it did little to alleviate the heavy air between them, thickened in part by the intensity of his gaze on her. ‘Where did you learn the waltz?’ She tried again, flushing at the amusement that sparkled in his eyes from her pathetic attempts to make small conversation.

 

‘Do you really wish to discuss dancing, Molly?’ He treated her Christian name like a secret, only recently disclosed to him, his voice full of reverence now that he had the privilege of speaking it.

 

‘What other conversation can you offer me?’ His lips quirked at that, and she felt the pressure of his hand more insistently on her back as he guided her through the next steps.

 

‘I flatter myself that I am enough your intellectual match to keep you entertained,’ Sherlock replied smoothly, and she internally sighed at his avoidance of the elephantine topic suspended between them.

 

‘Now would seem an appropriate time to prove yourself.’ The words were spoken lightly, but the challenge was evident in her eyes.

 

‘Very well,’ he paused for a moment to scan the room. ‘Do you see Mrs Elliot, there? She finds herself in requited love with her husband’s cousin.’ Sherlock nodded his head towards the couple dancing several feet away from them.

 

‘He was Mr Elliot’s best man!’ Molly declared in shock, unaware of the affectionate smile that graced Sherlock’s face.

 

‘I wouldn’t worry, as I am sure that Mr Elliot is in the throes of an affair with his maid.’

 

Molly’s eyes widened comically, and remained this way as Sherlock continued to deduce sordid, unthinkable things of almost every individual in the room. She listened with attentive fascination as he unmasked people she had known her entire life, until he revealed that her childhood music teacher was in the process of defrauding one of the foremost landowners of the county.

 

‘Mr Holmes!’ She exclaimed, so scandalised by Sherlock’s deductions that she failed to notice the term of address that she had used. Her eyes were still riveted on her old piano teacher, so she was unaware of the way he studied her- reveling in the relaxation of her aspect- or the fondness in his eyes as he did so.

 

‘Will you marry me?’ The words escaped his mouth before he could conquer them, or replace them with the strands of conversation that he had planned earlier to introduce the subject more delicately.

 

This sudden shift in topic injected a level of clumsiness into the exchange that had not been present before: verbal in nature on Sherlock’s part, and literal on Molly’s, when she abruptly, and immediately stopped dancing.

 

Practiced as he was, Sherlock was able to recover the moment without drawing too much attention, and it was not long before they appeared to be moving as naturally as any other couple, despite the gentle resistance that Sherlock could sense in his partner.

 

‘You can’t mean it,’ she whispered finally, her eyes wide and fearful as they stared into his.

 

‘I do,’ he replied firmly, squeezing her hand tighter in his to give the statement greater conviction. ‘I do, Molly.’

 

‘But you’re… Jasmine… I ca-’

 

‘I want to marry you.’

 

His words confused her, so she averted her attention to the dance; and found him seriously wanting in almost every area of proper conduct that her grandmother had instilled in her.

 

Lady Hooper had never mentioned that she might see such burning intensity in her partner’s eyes, or experience such turbulent emotion in the pit of her own stomach; and where his hand was meant to loosely grasp hers, his grip was firm, as if he were afraid that she would be wrested from him at any point. The distance between them was great enough that it would not attract the attention of outsiders, but Molly felt, in his arms, that they were lingering on that same precipice from which they had fallen together that night in the library.

 

The final notes of the waltz saved them, if only from other people’s remarks, as Molly was sure that she was not released from the subject of marriage, so suddenly sprung on her.

 

She allowed Sherlock to lead her to the perimeter of the room, noting their deliberate distance from her family and acquaintances so that they could not be drawn into any disrupting conversation.

 

‘I believe it customary for the lady to give some reply,’ was his opening line, delivered with what Molly would have taken for tentativeness if she had not known him.

 

‘I don’t think what is customary applies to us anymore, Sherlock.’ She had never used his first name before, and his sharp exhalation indicated that he had noticed.

 

Molly felt him reach for her hand, but the curious looks that she knew intuitively were being sent their way forced her to hesitate.

 

‘We can’t discuss this here,’ she told him, her voice pleading. ‘I cannot say yes,’ Molly’s heart faltered when she saw the disappointment in his eyes. ‘But, I-’ She paused, aware that she was inviting trouble with her next words. ‘I cannot seem to bring myself to say no.’

 

With a wry smile, she took her leave of him, hoping he understood that, for now, that was all the answer she could give him.

 

******

 

Sherlock was reliably informed that, as marriage proposals go, his had been inadvisable.

 

‘You proposed what?’ John cried, riding home alongside him while the carriage that held the remainder of their party spirited away before them.

 

‘Marriage, John,’ Sherlock repeated impatiently, digging in his heels in an attempt to gallop away from his friend’s hard questioning.

 

‘Are you not forgetting something, Sherlock?’ The detective noted with some annoyance that John remained on his wing. ‘Your existing fiancé, perhaps?’ It was the mirth in John’s voice that prompted Sherlock to yank on his reigns, screeching to a halt in the middle of the wooded path.

 

‘You go too far.’ The combined shock of finding that Sherlock had halted, and was angry with him almost sent John from his horse. ‘You are aware that my engagement to Jasmine was against my wishes. She is my fiancé in name only. How can she be more when my intentions towards her are as far from marriage as possible?’ Here, Sherlock ran out of steam. ‘Molly, on the other hand…’

 

Watson studied his friend with a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity. Never before had he witnessed such earnestness in place of Sherlock’s habitual nonchalance, and it unsettled him that this sincerity appeared to spill forth from the other man’s mouth, as if he had lost control of those rarely-seen emotions.

 

He recognised his own part in his friend’s desperation, experiencing no small amount of guilt when he recalled the way he had dismissed Sherlock so insensitively on the day of his arrival.

 

‘I have failed you as a friend,’ John declared gravely, his expression lent even greater sobriety by the shadows that surrounded him.

 

‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Watson,’ Sherlock replied smoothly, his voice back under control, and John close again to falling off his horse. ‘I suppose I shall allow for your inattentiveness considering your courtship with Miss Mary.’ With a sigh, he rode on, which John took to mean that his anger had evaporated.

 

‘So did she give a reply?’ John asked, when he had once again drawn level with Sherlock’s horse.

 

‘No,’ Sherlock murmured after a pause, barely audible.

 

‘Understandable.’

 

‘Is it?’ The question was delivered like a shot.

 

‘Of course,’ Watson sensed that Sherlock wished him to explain, and was pleased to be useful once again. ‘By proposing to elope, you are asking her to betray the cousin with whom she was raised, and turn her back on her family in favour of living in scandal with you.’ Sherlock was no longer very confident that she would say yes.

 

‘I had not considered it in that way.’ John could not resist rolling his eyes at this, but it gave him pause when it occurred to him that, rather than Sherlock’s usual social ineptness, it was the romantic strands of his friend’s personality that had prevented his understanding.  

 

‘However, Miss Hooper seems a brave woman,’ John had noted this to himself before now. ‘And if she loves you, Sherlock…’ He finished significantly, hoping to bolster his friend’s hope for the window of time before Miss Hooper gave her answer.

 

‘Thank you, John.’ Sherlock met Watson’s gaze, a familiar lopsided smirk on his face, which John returned with some relief.

 

Unburdened on both sides, they set off at a gallop, their horses perfectly in step as they rode into darkness.

 

******

 

By the time the two gentlemen returned from the ball, Molly had already gone to bed.

 

She had excused herself almost as soon as she had been admitted into the house, grateful that the residual excitement of the ball limited the attention paid to her exit.

 

Removing her clothes was a process carried out with entire absence of mind, until she realised the maid had left her in the puddle of her outfit, cold in just her slip, but only barely aware of it.

_‘Will you marry me?’_

She carried herself on leaden legs to her dressing table, and sat in the seat that had been hers even when she had been too small to see herself properly in the mirror.

 

Aside from her reflection, much of the table had remained unchanged since her girlhood, including the ornate brush she now selected. The initials on its handle, however, were not Molly’s own: the _A_ denoted her mother’s Christian name, beside the first letter of the surname that Molly’s father had given his wife on their wedding day.

_‘I want to marry you.’_

 

Molly dropped the brush back onto the table with a dull thud.

 

If she had changed significantly from the little girl who had first slept in this room, then the woman who had boarded the train in London was just as unrecognisable to her now.

 

Before, she would not have found it so difficult to restrain herself from thinking of him, nor would the memory of his hands on her have lingered so vividly at the forefront of her mind. Their stolen seconds, and moments of improper proximity were hers to retain, and relive when she removed to where he was not.

 

This thought, meant as self-comfort, only made Molly wonder how memories could ever be enough, to replace the physical presence of the man she loved.

 

How could the ghostly recollection of his arms around her lessen the dull ache within her heart at his absence?

 

What release could their few kisses (unfulfilled in themselves) offer her when the tightly coiled need for him was more insistent than ever? 

 

The flush of such arousal had made ruin over Molly’s cheeks, and her own dilated pupils stared back at her with resolve in the mirror. Determined as she believed herself to be, she prolonged the putting on of her dressing gown, as if daybreak would come before she received a chance to satisfy her intention.

 

Instead, Molly found as she finally reached the door, that the night was as black as it had formerly been.

 

Navigating the hallway proved a challenge, as Molly had neglected to bring any light with her: an oversight that was perhaps indicative of some absence of rationale. The darkness necessitated very slow progress, which made the chances of being discovered by someone a much nearer threat. This thought, rather than alarming her, only emphasised the aspect of the forbidden in what she was doing- in what she was about to do- and she found herself rather thrilled by it.

 

Suddenly, beneath the palm that she had stretched out as a feeler on the wall, the embossed paper turned to smooth wooden paneling, the third such interruption that she had counted since leaving her room. She halted immediately, wincing when the floorboards creaked beneath her, and mustering all the courage she possessed when this prompted movement on the other side of the door.

 

Light curled under it, teasing at the carpet before her feet, crawling towards her toes as the lamp was brought closer on the other side. Her pulse reverberated in her ears, and panic began to swell in her stomach, but all of it faded into insignificance when the door opened, and the comforting glow washed over her in all its glory.

 

Sherlock stood in the doorway before her, pulling the door as wide as he could for her, as if this would affect her decision to enter. She gave him a soft smile, but it was her eyes that betrayed the warmth that had crept into her at the sight of him.

 

Molly placed each of her feet onto the metal threshold, which was cool beneath her bare feet as she raised herself on her tiptoes. He had not moved at all since opening the door, so it was easy for her to reach up and press her lips to his, in the hallway, where anyone could see them.

 

Neither of them found that they cared very much when Sherlock’s immobility melted into cooperation, giving way to a series of unhurried kisses, which chased away all thoughts of anything or anyone else.

 

There they remained, stuck between his room and the hallway, until the desire for greater contact prompted Sherlock to pull Molly flush against him. Her feet left the threshold, and then the floor altogether, as Sherlock lifted her easily into his arms and braced her against the wall.

 

It was only at this point that he closed the door, motivated by an instinctive desire for privacy, and the even more primal need to keep her there with him for as long as she allowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are approaching the end, my lovely, patient friends. I have plans for a couple more chapters, and I desperately hope that I can satisfy your expectations for the end of this story. You guys are pretty wonderful as readers go, and I am so grateful for all of the time and kindness that you have granted both my story and me. Thank you very much. :-)


	7. Chapter Seven

Sherlock kissed her as if they had the whole of time rolled out before them.

 

The leisurely way that his mouth moved over hers almost made her believe it, but the fear of separation seeped into their embrace nonetheless. His fingers were twined in her hair, free arm pinned firmly around her waist, and she clung to him no less insistently.

 

He had pressed her to the wall at some point, and she was grateful for the solidity of it, something to drop her head against when he began to trace kisses down her neck.

 

For him, cataloguing all sensory information came naturally, but Molly had never before been so acutely aware of all the feeling in her body, His strong, masculine hand slipped beneath her nightgown to grip her bare thigh, and she felt the warmth of it deep in her belly. Her nails scraped over the fabric of his dressing gown, the muscles of his back rippling under her fingertips with the effort of holding her in his arms.

 

She tightened her legs around his waist, desperate for further stimulation, and for the first time, she felt the hardness of him pressed exactly where she wanted it.

 

He groaned against her collarbone, the barest hint of his teeth scraping her skin, and a shiver carried itself like lightning down her spine.

 

‘Molly,’ he cradled her face, the question in his voice clearer to her than it would have been to anyone else. She knew this man, had known him even as a headline in a newspaper, and most certainly as the brilliant, complicated, heroic man before her now. She knew too that she loved him, and it scared her, as the distant possibility of love had scared her every day of her adult life.

 

But it did not scare enough to stop her from kissing him, or from taking his hand in hers when their lips parted, to lead him to the bed in the centre of the room.

 

With steady, purposeful fingers, she pushed his robe off his shoulders, and began to unbutton the shirt underneath. She kissed down his torso as it was slowly exposed to her, allowing her teeth to graze both his nipples, and enjoying low moan that he made as a result.

 

The final button placed her in dangerous territory, and he cocked his eyebrow as her hands hovered at his waistband. Molly understood the willpower that he was exerting in order to give her full control, and was unable to resist the temptation to test it just a little.

 

She traced his abdominal muscles first, which were tautened by his resolve, and firm as sculpted marble. Her touch here was light, teasing, but she soon smoothed her palms over his sides, his shoulders, his back: desperate for a better sense of the man at her mercy.

 

Molly drew his shirt down his arms at an agonising pace, neglecting the buttons at his cuffs for just a moment so that his hands were sheathed in the fabric. His frustration at this incapacitation was clear in the tension of his entire body, and it was at this moment that she chose to brush over his erection, inhaling sharply at the feel of what was waiting for her there.

 

This was also the point at which his self-control snapped, and he whipped his shirt back on so that he could pull her against the length of his body. She grinned at the victory, smug to have defeated the supposedly tenacious Sherlock Holmes, so he kissed her until all thought was extinguished from her mind.

 

He laid her reverently beneath the coverlet, divesting himself of all clothing save his drawers, before he too joined her on the bed. He had not yet glimpsed of her without her nightgown, but neither of them had the patience to endure the same leisurely exploration that Molly had enjoyed.

 

She ripped off her slip without ceremony, allowing him one cursory glance at her before she pulled her down to her. He was barely able to take the tip of her breast in his mouth before she was eagerly pushing down his underwear, and he became quite incapable of doing anything at all when she wrapped her hand around the length of him.

 

‘Molly,’ he mumbled into her skin. ‘I need you so badly.’

 

The sentiment was returned when she dragged his mouth to hers, insistently trying to position him where she needed him most. But he still retained the presence of mind to check her readiness for him, thanking gods that he did not believe in when he felt the evidence of her arousal.

 

Sherlock eased himself into her, softly kissing her fluttering eyelashes, hoping to alleviate any discomfort caused by their union. Her fingertips tightened at the nape of his neck when he was fully sheathed in her, and he tried desperately to memorise the expression in her eyes when they fully opened to him a second later.

 

He wanted to remain in the moment forever, but his need to move was greater, so he experimentally rolled his hips against hers. She became more confident with every thrust, rising up to meet him when she felt he was not going fast enough.

 

‘God, Sherlock,’ the only words she was capable of forming, arching her back so extremely that she said them to the sky. He exploited this fact by paying deserved attention to her breasts, glancing his tongue over the slight saltiness of her skin, and tugging a nipple gently between his teeth.

 

Too soon, he felt his release begin to build, so he pressed his thumb to her centre, the fluttering of her muscles around his cock a sign that she was close also. He tried his best to keep time with the movement of their hips, but she was so goddamn distracting, with her hair spilling across his pillow and the iridescence of her eyes as she watched him make love to her.

 

Quite accidentally, it was this thought that pushed him over the edge, and pure luck that she happened to follow him. It left them both breathless, gasping for air and yet somehow choosing to kiss instead, more starved for each other than for oxygen.

 

For Molly, drowsiness inevitably followed, but Sherlock felt more alive than he could ever remember being, his brain frantically recording every aspect of what he had shared with her.

 

‘I love you,’ he murmured, the realisation flooding his mind palace, redecorating the entire structure that he had built in his mind. ‘I love you,’ he repeated again, tasting the words, until they felt no longer unfamiliar, but the most natural thing in the world.

 

So he looked down, anxious to apprehend her response to this most earth shattering of declarations, only to realise that she was asleep, sprawled across his chest, her dainty hand cupped over his heart.

 

******

 

When Sherlock woke the next morning, restfulness saturated his every limb, despite the distant aches and pains that spoke of the exploits of the previous night.

 

He lay there for a moment, with his eyes shut, savouring the memories of his night with Molly before the commotion of the coming day began. They had much to plan together, Molly and him, the escape from his current predicament most pressing, of course.

 

But their life together, afterwards: it was his excitement for that which prompted him to open his eyes, and reach out for his bedfellow.

 

Instead, he met with empty sheets, cool to the touch, which his brain could not reconcile with the warmth of Molly, whom he had been supposed to find.

 

He sat up, expecting her again to be standing before the window, curled up in an armchair, packing his wardrobe, pouring a glass of water, reading at the foot of the bed, or concealed somewhere, but still in his room.

 

When those possibilities proved erroneous, he began picking out clothing without a care for what he put on, just so that he would not be found in just his drawers when he went out to look for her. He thought perhaps that she would be in her own room, retrieving her essentials, because they were leaving today, as they had planned.

 

So he raced to her room, so that they could escape before the rest of the household stirred, run away together as he had asked her.

 

‘Sherlock?’ But it was a masculine voice that roused him from his daze, and Sherlock observed with rising dread that it was John, among a crowd of people assembled in the hallway.

 

The entire Hooper family, a handful of their servants, his own parents, his brother Mycroft, all crowded around the door of a room: Molly’s room.

 

Why were they standing outside Molly’s room?

 

‘Sherlock,’ John said again, closer now, out of earshot of the rest of the household. ‘Have you only just got up?’ He sounded exasperated, but it was still early in the morning, and Sherlock did not understand. ‘Your sleeping patterns, _honestly_. It’s mid afternoon, Holmes, you must have been exhaus-’

 

‘What’s going on?’ His voice did not sound like his own: low and hoarse as if he had not spoken in a decade.

 

‘Well, it’s Miss Molly,’ John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearing his throat. ‘She was missing from her room this morning, bed not been slept in. Lord Hooper had the whole household out looking for her- she likes to walk in the gardens apparently- but no one has seen her. We’ve been searching all morning, and the thing is, Sherlock-’

 

He pauses here, and Sherlock knows, deduces what he will say even though it destroys him.

 

‘We can’t find her.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me? 
> 
> I definitely missed writing this: spent hours looking at shirtless Benedict Cumberbatch for, um, research. Anyway, I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and I'm sorry for the rather cruel cliffhanger. I'm not quite sure what's going to happen next, but I'm excited to find out, and dear God I hope you are too. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left a review or a kudos or even simply read this story, you have no idea how much it means to me. I hope to be more deserving of your support in the future. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year! 
> 
> It's good to be back.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So now the morning after, from Molly's perspective.

The doubt crept in with the early morning sunlight, slipping with ease past the open curtains.

 

Molly ignored it for a moment, watching the man beside her instead, peaceful and unguarded in sleep. It was a glimpse of a life with him, waking to his steady heartbeat beneath her palm, and his curls brushing her forehead from where he had tipped his head towards her during the night. It was a life she wanted, and one she believed he was offering her, despite the wealth of other men who would have spent the night as they had, only to abandon her in the morning.

 

All she had to do was close her eyes again, burrow into his side, and pretend that the daylight had not restored all the reason that she had disregarded the night before.

 

Instead, she eased herself from his side, and pulled on her nightgown, her robe, her bare feet skimming the clothes that she had taken off him, and her heart aching with remembrance.

 

He murmured something in his sleep, and she was afraid that he would stir, find her there at the foot of his bed, and deduce from her guilty expression that she was committing the very worst crime against him.

 

She deserved to be exposed like that, Molly thought bitterly, hating herself for creeping away like a coward, unable to look him in the eye and explain herself properly.

 

She was weak, just as Jasmine and her grandmother and her colleagues and her teachers had always said; they had known her better than she had known herself, had seen through her facade of bravery to the fear that lurked beneath.

 

Because Molly was terrified; scared of the life that she would have to sacrifice in order to build a new one with him. The job that she loved, the independence that she had fought for, the family who had protected her when all the security in the world had been torn away: all washed away in an instant for Lord William Sherlock Holmes.

 

She was having trouble breathing, blood rushing through her ears, and her heart hammered so insistently that she was sure he would wake from the force of it. The air was heavy with the scent of them, and bile rose in her throat, sending her desperately for the door, but with enough presence of mind to close it with the quietest of clicks behind her.

 

She reached out gratefully for the wall in the hallway, bracing herself against it until enough oxygen returned to her, although a mild lightheadedness still remained.

 

The house was silent around her, and she estimated that she still had some hours before the servants would begin to rouse her family. This was fortunate, as she found herself incapable of returning hastily to her room, as if some invisible force were attempting to bind her to the bedchamber that she had just vacated.

 

How desperately she wanted to return to it, ensconce herself back in his arms and make a secret promise between herself and the heavens to never leave them again. All the reasons that had seemed solid enough to coax her away were becoming slighter by the minute, replaced by the firm conviction that she loved him, and all else could hang.

 

Molly stopped dead in the hallway, and reminded herself of whom it was that she was walking away from. Sherlock, the man who had so captivated her that first day on the train, accepting her career and believing her worthy of his attention. She felt again the crushing despair that seeing him later in her grandfather’s ballroom had caused, and recalled how the coming days had shown her that she would do anything to be able to switch places with her cousin.

 

Yet, here was her opportunity, and she was walking away?

 

‘Stupid,’ she scolded herself, whipping around and retracing her steps with light, agile feet. Sherlock was offering himself to her, and she would regret for eternity turning him down.

 

‘Disappointing.’

 

But the unfamiliar voice gave her pause, and she halted, turning to face the man who emerged from the shadows.

 

‘So close to the correct choice, Dr Hooper, and yet not quite close enough.’

 

‘Lord Mycroft?’ Molly replied uncertainly, Sherlock’s brother being the last person she had expected to see fully dressed this early in the morning.

 

‘No need to be coy, Molly,’ she flinched at the use of her given name. ‘There can be only one explanation for finding you out of bed at this hour.’ He smiled then, but it did not reach his eyes, and she was wary for the first time of this seemingly unassuming man.

 

‘On the contrary, I have little idea of what-’

 

‘Sherlock is not capable of sentiment, Miss Hooper,’ he interrupted briskly. ‘I say this for your benefit as much as his, before things get even further out of control.’

 

‘Thank you for your concern,’ Molly intoned icily, although every word that Mycroft spoke sent another spike of doubt to her heart. ‘But I am well able to look after myself.’

 

‘Perhaps,’ the smile was more of a grimace now, and she took relief from the fact that he was just as uncomfortable as she was. ‘But it is difficult to judge when one does not have all the facts.’

 

‘I don’t understand-’

 

‘Did he tell you why I arranged this match? You assumed it was to secure his happiness? Carry on the family line?’

 

She shrugged, both thoughts having crossed her mind at some point or another.

 

‘Punishment,’ Mycroft corrected simply. ‘I am forcing Sherlock to marry your cousin because he does not deserve the adventure or excitement that an, if not equal then better match such as yourself would offer him.’

 

Again, she did not understand, bridling slightly at the implication that she was merely a better option than her cousin, rather than a partner for Sherlock in her own right.

 

‘My brother is an addict, Doctor Hooper. Tobacco, alcohol, laudanum, opium; even the thrill of his cases is a kind of high for him, and the puzzle you present is no exception. I do not deny that you evoke certain feelings in him, feelings that are exciting and novel for him now; but he will, inevitably, get bored, and you, my dear, will suffer.’

 

Molly rocks back on her heels as if he has physically struck her, and the sympathy in his eyes is the worst blow of all. He does not want to hurt her, she can see it in his expression: but he believes that he should warn her, as Sherlock’s brother, as someone who has seen all of his worst addictive cycles.

 

The drug abuse is new information to her, but it is not a surprise, considering what a burden it must be for him to have to think so deeply, about so much, and with so little escape. To think of herself as just one such escape evokes the deepest, most unspeakable pain, and tears brim in her eyes, much as she does not want to cry in front of this man.

 

‘I love him,’ is all she can say, and she traces the flash of regret that crosses Mycroft’s face.

 

‘An easy mistake, Miss Hooper, believe me.’ And they stand there, in the corridor, staring at each other in silence, having reached a mutual understanding in spite of it all.

 

He did not say more; he could see that he did not have to, so he turned and left her, respectfully, to the turmoil of her thoughts.

 

Sherlock’s closed bedroom door sat beside her, in reaching distance, but the weight of the decision was too much, and she sank to the floor, silent tears absorbed by the carpet below.

 

******

 

Later, much later, when she had boarded the train and was almost halfway to London, she realised that she had not left word as to where she was going.

 

The face of her grandfather, worry etched over his worn features, swam into the forefront of her mind, and she cried anew with the guilt of it. It was too late to go back, and undo the pain that she had left behind her, but she did not yet regret her decision to flee.

 

The words of Mycroft Holmes echoed in her ear, and she trusted the concrete fact that they placed behind her own immaterial fears.

 

He would have got bored of her, as all men who met meek Molly Hooper eventually did, and then where would she have been?

 

Without her job, abandoned by her family and the man she loved, and even more unhappy than she knew herself to be at that present moment.

 

Molly glanced over at the other passenger in her compartment, a kind looking old woman reading a novel, wondering how different it could have been if she had been her companion for the journey up.

 

The woman must have felt her gaze, because she looked up, smiling at Molly with maternal concern, and tilting her head questioningly.

 

But a shaky smile was all Molly could muster before she returned her attention to the view from the window; aware that not even kindly old ladies would be able to understand the mess that she had got herself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one just wrote itself: Molly was clearly determined have her say, and I hope her reasons seem somewhat justified! Of course, this is not the end of the story, and I'll try to be back as soon as I can with the next instalment. Until then, Merry Christmas (again), and thank you for reading!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of drug use/abuse

_Dearest Grandfather,_

_I anticipate that you are quite angry with me, and justifiably so, after I left Derbyshire in that strange way. If it could have been avoided, I would have loved nothing better than staying with you for several weeks, but it was impossible for me to remain._

_Please pass my apologies onto Jasmine, who I hope will forgive me in due course for missing such an important day. I hope it was all that she wanted, and that she finds her new husband and living situation all to her liking._

_How do I explain the events that lead me to depart so suddenly? Other than to say that there is too much to be outlined here, when telling you in person would be a much more preferable method._

_I can only hope to have earned your respect enough that you trust me when I say there were certain events that necessitated my presence in London, and forced me to return to town at once. My patients need me, and my mind was heavily occupied with all the ways that I had not settled their circumstances before coming to Derbyshire. It is true that I am merely their doctor, but I feel a strong duty to protect them just as you protected me when I felt most hopeless and alone. In fact, it was a conversation with the elder Lord Holmes that finally convinced me I was better off here than as part of the wedding party, knowing how Jasmine had everything well under control._

_Please, do not be disappointed in me, when that is the one thing in the world I wish least to do._

_I will come up again to visit as soon as I have all my affairs sorted here, which I hope will not take longer than a month or two. I also expect we shall be reunited for Mary’s wedding, which I look forward to with all the good wishes in the world._

_Ever your devoted granddaughter,_

_Your loving, Molly_

 

******

 

Molly finally sent the letter in its twentieth iteration, although it pained her to include those glaring half-truths that she knew she could never fully explain.

 

The telegram she had sent on her return to London had been perfunctory at best, designed to dissuade them from worry, but nearly not a good enough account of why she had left in the first place. So she had written this, hoping that it would clarify things enough to close the book on the whole, sorry episode.

 

Reading it over, she realised that she had only created more questions: questions she desperately hoped her grandfather would not ask her.

 

She lived the next few weeks in a kind of trance, the ordinary life that she had relished before _him_ fading to grey in his absence. The work that she had sacrificed him for did not give her the same joy that it once had, and even the taunts of her colleagues when they noticed her unhappiness did not sting as they used to.

 

She stopped reading the newspaper, after seeing his cases on the front page one too many times, and was glad of the excuse to avoid the marriage announcements also. She received several letters from Mary, and a reply from Lord Hooper, but could not bring herself to open them. So they also joined the large pile accumulating beside the fire of emissaries from the world outside, ignored and gathering dust while she waited out her stupor.

 

A month after her return from Derbyshire, her landlady, Mrs Fry, stopped her on her way in from work to tell her that she had had a visitor.

 

Molly’s stomach dropped immediately, but she forced herself to remain calm when she asked if this visitor had left a name.

 

‘No,’ the landlady, prone to gossip, watched Molly’s reaction closely. ‘But I recognised him quite well from the papers: that Holmes man who’s been helping the police.’ Molly inhaled sharply, going so white that Mrs Fry insisted she sit down and have some tea. ‘My dear, are you quite all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

 

‘Fine, Mrs Fry, thank you,’ she murmured, the lie obvious even to herself. ‘I haven’t eaten much, you see, and I was rushed off my feet at the surgery…’ Her voice trailed off pathetically, but her landlady, who was kind at heart, merely patted her hand and busied herself with her stitch work.

 

The next day, Molly found somewhere new to live, in a part of town where she was sure no one would recognise her.

 

******

 

In 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes pointed his gun at the wall, and fired.

 

It had been two months since he had quitted Derbyshire, and he was still of the opinion that what had transpired there had been the most profound error of his entire life.

 

He had been sure of it during the entirety of his time on the Continent, a trip that had first been suggested by his then-fiancée, and which Mycroft had forced him into despite his protestations.

 

This was not the only arrangement his bastard brother had made on his behalf, and the fury that had been Sherlock’s constant companion of late reared its ugly head again. It tormented him, to wonder what Mycroft could have said to persuade the woman he loved from leaving him, and did nothing to aid the already fractious relationship between the two Holmes sons.

 

He had seen a copy of the letter than she had sent to her grandfather to explain her sudden disappearance, and been able to surmise what Lord Hooper had missed, considering how little the older man knew of the facts.

 

_In fact, it was a conversation with the elder Lord Holmes that finally convinced me I was better off here than as part of the wedding party…_

There was a sentence that had much clearer meaning to him, for instance, and had sent him careering into his brother’s bedchamber in blind fury.

 

‘Please, Sherlock, let’s not be dramatic about this,’ had been Mycroft’s rather too mild response, considering the handkerchief that he had pressed over his bloody nose.

 

Sherlock had threatened him then, his own bruised fist clenched tightly as he demanded that Mycroft release him from the match: a demand that was flatly refused.

 

But Sherlock had seen the alarm in his brother’s eyes, the lingering fear there not because of what Sherlock could do to him, Mycroft, but of what Sherlock could do to himself. He knew it would punish Mycroft eternally if he gave in to the temptation that prickled always beneath his skin; knew that it would prove that no matter how much this marriage was supposed to stabilise him, his brother’s betrayal had been enough to push him over the edge again.

 

The biggest pull was the fact that it would numb his sensibility for a while: shut off his unceasing mind, and cleanse even the most vivid memories of Molly, which plagued him night after night.

 

The softness of her hair laced between his fingers, for example, and the fluttering of her eyelashes as he ghosted his hands over her supple skin. He had buried his nose in the crook of her neck, where the scent of her was strongest: strong enough that he woke some mornings enveloped by the memory of it, and convinced himself that she was really beside him.

 

He knew how she looked when she came, and he tortured himself with the reminder of what he had done to cause it. She had gasped the first time he entered her, clenching her muscles to keep him there, and he had never been more tempted to worship another human being before. In that moment, she had wanted him as much as he wanted her, and, no matter what she had done after, it was something of which he could be sure.

 

These distant recollections were all he had, now that she was gone, and it was this fact alone that saved him from himself.

 

The drug took things from him, sedating his mind so effectively that sometimes he resurfaced to find that things had been swept away, his mind wiped clean of a piece of information or a memory.

 

And he could not risk the same thing happening to a single second of his time with Molly, precious as it had been to him.

 

He would have told his brother that sentiment had been his saviour, if he had not resolved never to speak to him again.

 

John asked him what had happened, too clever to ignore the coincidental timing of Sherlock’s proposal with Molly’s hasty retreat. But Sherlock did not tell him about the night he had spent with her, and was so unforthcoming about Molly in general that his friend, already distracted by Mary, stopped asking.

 

The wedding preparations had continued in full swing, and Sherlock had been swept along like an insignificant stone taken in by the tide, largely ignored in spite of the fact that it was his life on the line. The truth was that he did not need chemical help to anaesthetise himself from the world, because the helplessness that had set in as soon as he had woken up alone had already done that for him.

 

So in the present, in his flat, he shot at the wall again, willing his body to feel something in the face of the earsplitting sound of the gun.

 

‘Sherlock,’ an angry female voice sounded from the bottom of the stairs, and his mood darkened even further.

 

He had no peace, not any more: Mycroft had seen to that. Having a woman always around was proving an incessant annoyance, interfering with his desperately sought solitude, and treating him like a prisoner in his own home. And he was stuck with her, stuck with her presence in his flat, while the woman he most wanted continued to run as far away from him as she could manage.

 

******

 

Fwd: Dr Molly Hooper at her new address of _33 Lime Street, City of London_

 

_Darling Molly,_

_I confess to being rather alarmed after reading your letter, although I do of course have utmost faith in your judgement and am sure that your reasons for leaving as you did were wholly justified._

_However, your letter did reveal that you are woefully misinformed about our recent events, which leads me to conclude that my last letter failed to reach you. (I am not sure if the address I have for you is still correct, so please confirm this for me with your reply.)_

_There is much to update you on, Molly, most of which you will hardly believe… But I suppose I must begin with the most important news._

_The wedding, my dear, was cancelled, rather suddenly I am afraid._

_In fact, it was only at the very last minute that we were told that it could not go ahead, and for such strange reasons, Molly, I almost wish it did not fall to me to write them._

_Have you really heard nothing about it?_

******

 

‘Sherlock Holmes, stop that racket at once!’

 

Sherlock looked up without interest as Mrs Hudson stormed into the room. She was so angry that she was quite a fearsome sight to behold, but her expression softened somewhat when she took in the frankly pathetic sight of her tenant.

 

‘I recognise that you have had a trying few months, but please God, do not take it out on the wall.’

 

‘Apologies, Mrs Hudson,’ he replied in a monotone, albeit still swinging the gun around.

 

‘Oh Sherlock, how I wish that girl had suited you.’ Sherlock bemoaned that all her rage had evaporated so quickly into hateful sympathy. ‘It doesn’t do to be cooped up in here day after day, alone.’

 

‘Which girl, Mrs Hudson?’ He managed, moodily.

 

'Sherlock,' she was scolding him now. 'The girl you went up to marry; Gillian, Jane, Jacintha, oh I forget her name-'

 

'Molly.' He had not meant to say it, barely even recognised it as his own voice but for Mrs Hudson staring at him in surprise. Only he had not said her name in months, and he missed the way it sounded, missed the way she blushed whenever he said it in front of her. 'Her name was Molly. And she would have suited me just fine.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, was that an interesting first episode. I have very mixed thoughts, which I will not go into here, except to say that I am very glad this is an AU story. 
> 
> Did I trick you into thinking Sherlock married Jasmine? Any ideas as to how he got away with it? All will be revealed in the next instalment, which, I'm afraid, will take us ever closer to the end. I hope you are still with me, and I want to thank you for coming this far. 
> 
> Happy New Year!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve taken a jump back in time here: this one starts a few days before Sherlock and Jasmine are due to get married.

‘Lord Hooper?’

 

Molly’s grandfather turned at the sound of his name, abandoning his post by the window to beckon the younger Lord Holmes into his study.

 

‘Come in, my dear boy, come in,’ Sherlock seated himself in one of the chairs by the desk, unease seeping into his every limb at the sight of the other man’s beaming smile. ‘Hiding from the wedding preparations as well, are you?’ Lord Hooper chuckled, faltering slightly when Holmes made no reply. ‘Still, I suppose it will all be over in a few days, eh?’

 

‘Actually, sir,’ Sherlock found his voice, at last, although it sounded strained even to him. ‘I wish to speak to you about that, as I have certain… misgivings, which I feel you must be made aware of.’ He chose his words carefully, and he saw that the older man was struggling to puzzle out his meaning.

 

‘Misgivings?’

 

‘Precisely,’ Holmes paused again, aware that the next words, once spoken, would be very difficult to take back. ‘Misgivings that I feel make me an unsuitable match for Miss Jasmine, sir.’ Lord Hooper paled, the full gravity of the conversation dawning on him.

 

‘You had better explain yourself quickly, young man,’ Lord Hooper replied, with impatience.

 

‘I understand that this is highly irregular, Lord Hooper, and I am ashamed to have to cause such difficulty so close to the wedding-’

 

‘This is a dishonour,’ Hooper slammed a palm on his desk, giving into his temper. ‘You have given your word, man, that you will marry my granddaughter, and I cannot comprehend what-’

 

‘Please understand me,’ Holmes returned, equally firmly. ‘This is in no way a reflection on your granddaughter, who would make an excellent wife for any man-’

 

‘Naturally,’ Lord Hooper scoffed, rage still evident in his eyes.

 

‘But it is I who is not suitable, Lord Hooper, and I feel it is my duty to inform you of this now, before it is too late.’ Molly’s grandfather seemed inclined to hear him out, so Sherlock collected himself before he continued. ‘I am not a normal man, sir; I do not often do what society expects of me. I spend most of my time in my flat, or aiding with the police, and my own wedding will be the first social event I have attended in a number of years. If you know your granddaughter as I believe you do, you know she would be disappointed with the life I would give her: one spent away from society, and her friends, with only myself for company.’

 

Lord Hooper listened to him most attentively, and gestured for Sherlock to continue, but his expression was impossible to read.

 

‘My work is also of a most unusual nature, which requires me often to put myself and those close to me in danger in order to apprehend criminals. Of course, if Jasmine were to become my wife I would endeavour to keep her safe, but I wish for you to be aware of the risk that my chosen career poses.’

 

‘Lord Holmes, I thank you for bringing all this to my attention, but I still cannot see any substantial reason why the marriage cannot go ahead,’ Lord Hooper sighed in frustration. ‘Just because you are recluse does not mean that my granddaughter must be also: surely you have some friends who can introduce her to London society, which is much richer than the social life Jasmine enjoys here anyway. As to the other matter, why, policemen marry all the time! I fail to see why she would incur any greater risk in marrying you than she would with any other of the Peelers.’

 

‘That is not all, Lord Hooper,’ Sherlock stated quietly, although he had hoped to avoid exposing himself to the other man by having to say what he said next. ‘Prior to my arrival here, I met a woman whom I have come to care a great deal for,’ Holmes paused uncomfortably. ‘I… love her, in fact.’

 

‘Ah,’ Hooper looked visibly shaken as he brushed a hand over his face.

 

‘I consider myself bound in honour to her, Lord Hooper, something that was not the case when my brother agreed upon the match with you.’

 

‘I do not quite know what to say,’ Lord Hooper admitted, regarding Sherlock closely over his desk.

 

‘If I may say one final thing, sir,’ Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, hoping to convey sincerity, for what was probably the first time in his life. ‘If you still wish for me to marry Jasmine after all I have said, I vow that I will do so. My brother made a promise to you, and I will do my utmost to provide for Miss Jasmine’s happiness if you want me to honour it. You are a decent man, and I will respect whatever decision you make.’ Molly’s grandfather looked rather alarmed to be apportioned such responsibility, and the men sat in silence for a long time while he considered all that had been said.

 

Sherlock’s heart beat frenetically beneath his waistcoat, unsettled by the gravity of the gamble that he was taking. Lord Hooper would be well within his rights to demand that the wedding go ahead, and Sherlock was man enough to comply without argument. But it would mark a turning point in his life that would render true happiness impossible thereafter, and he it was not easy for him to admit to himself that of this, he was extremely afraid.

 

‘A part of me wishes that we had never had this conversation, Lord Holmes,’ Sherlock attempted to vocalise the same, but Hooper held up a hand to silence him. ‘Nevertheless, you have been very honest about your concerns, and I respect you for your oath to marry Jasmine regardless of the circumstances.’ Sherlock’s stomach dropped. ‘I do not, however, believe this to be necessary.’

 

Blood rushed in Sherlock’s ears, and if he had been a more sentimental man, he would have been inclined to associate this moment with a sudden lightness somewhere near his heart.

 

‘I release you of your engagement to Jasmine, and I would advise you to return to London before both she and my wife get hold of you.’ Lord Hooper blanched at the thought of having to inform both women of this sudden change of plans himself.

 

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ Sherlock rose to shake the older man’s hand, clear in his mind that Lord Hooper was one of the most admirable men he had ever had the pleasure of offending. He also recognised that this was the source of Molly’s own tremendous spirit, although the thought cost him some of his composure.

 

‘Oh, and Sherlock,’ Lord Hooper called to him as he turned to leave, with a distinctly paternal smile. ‘I hope that this woman, whoever she is, will make you very happy.’

 

******

 

_Two Months Later_

 

Molly knew that she would have to face reality at some point, but she was still surprised when she found Mary sitting in her armchair, only a week after her relocation.

 

‘My dear cousin, how lovely to see you,’ Mary grinned, depositing the anatomy book that she had pilfered from Molly’s tiny library on a side table.

 

‘How on earth did you get in?’ Molly laughed in spite of herself, some measure of happiness at the familiar face seeping through her current misery. But Mary only grinned in response to the question, loath to reveal her secrets just as she had been when they were children.

 

‘Thank you for replying to my letters so effusively, by the way,’ Mary said sarcastically, pointing at the still unopened envelopes on the dressing table. ‘We were worried when you disappeared like that.’

 

‘I know,’ Molly removed her coat, and guiltily brought a chair over to her cousin. ‘I can’t explain to why I did it, but I am so sorry to have scared you all.’

 

‘You can’t explain?’ Mary returned sceptically.

 

‘No, I-’

 

‘Is this about Sherlock?’ Molly gasped, her eyes wide with terror that her relationship with Sherlock was now common knowledge. Mary seemed to interpret her fears, and rushed to assuage them. ‘I’m engaged to his best friend, Molly, how else would I have known?’ Somehow this made Molly even more miserable.

 

‘Oh I’m so sorry, Mary, I completely forgot! How is John? Have you set a date for the wedding?’

 

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ Mary brushed her off impatiently. ‘What happened with Sherlock?’

 

‘What do you know already?’

 

‘That he asked you to elope and the next morning you were gone. I couldn’t believe it when John told me; I hadn’t realised you’d said more than two words to the man.’

 

‘We met on the train: shared a carriage up from London.’

 

‘But if you didn’t want to marry him, Molly, you could have just said no. No need to run all the way back to town-’

 

‘I did want to,’ Molly’s voice was barely a whisper, but she had at least finally said that which she could not admit even to herself. ‘I wanted to marry him, Mary, that’s what frightened me.’

 

‘Christ,’ Molly had never heard her cousin swear before, but she had to admit that this was the perfect situation for it. ‘You do know that he didn’t marry Jasmine, don’t you?’ Mary seized Molly’s hands desperately, relaxing at Molly’s nod of confirmation.

 

‘Grandpa sent me a letter-’ She ignored Mary’s muttered comment that at least that letter had been opened. ‘He explained that Sherlock had been to see him, had protested himself not good enough for Jasmine, and that his job would put her in danger but-’

 

‘That silly man,’ Mary murmured. ‘Far too discreet for his own good.’

 

‘Who? Sherlock?’ Molly had to laugh at this, well aware that Sherlock Holmes was the most indiscreet man she had ever met.

 

‘Grandpa left a very important detail out of his letter, Molly: listen very carefully.’ Mary spoke with a great deal of urgency, pinning her cousin under the intensity of her gaze. ‘The main reason that Sherlock gave for breaking of the engagement was that he had fallen in love with someone else. You, Molly!’ Mary clarified, when it appeared she had struck Molly dumb with the revelation. ‘Don’t you see what this means?’

 

‘I- No-’

 

‘Molly,’ Mary spoke very slowly, anxious that Molly should apprehend her meaning. ‘He would rather be alone than marry anyone but you.’

 

‘Oh,’ Molly’s eyes widened quite suddenly. ‘Oh! I have to go, Mary, right this second, please call me a carriage.’

 

After months of trancelike existence, Molly could now see everything quite clearly. Mary’s visit had had the desired effect of jolting her to action, and she felt restlessness flood her entire body as one directive finalised itself in her mind.

 

She left Mary in her rooms, and threw herself in a hackney-cab, the address that her cousin had written down for her clutched in her hands, on which all her hopes now depended.

 

******

 

Sherlock Holmes took the stairs up to his flat two at a time, buoyed by a post-case high, which had been a welcome distraction from the daily monotony of his life of late.

 

‘Mrs Hudson,’ he bellowed in no particular direction, trusting that his landlady would bring him a cup of tea from wherever she was in the house.

 

His front door was unlocked, which he did not think suspicious considering his earlier desperation to follow Lestrade, and he whipped off his coat as soon as his feet crossed the threshold.

 

‘Mrs Hudson,’ he repeated, slightly louder this time in the face of her frustrating silence.

 

‘She isn’t here,’ came a voice from behind him, so soft that for a moment he was convinced he had imagined it.

 

But he turned, and she was there, sitting in his favourite chair, hands primly folded in her lap. He reached out to the doorframe for support, feeling the telltale quickening of his pulse that always betrayed her presence.

 

‘Hello again,’ she murmured, her eyes full of tears, but he could see the smile that was threatening to appear.

 

‘Molly.’

 

It was all he could manage, as he crossed the room to her, slowly enough that if she were a figment of his imagination, his brain would have time to reconsider its cruelty in conjuring her.

 

But then he felt a small hand curl around his, and she pressed her cheek against his palm, drawing him down to kneel before her. And she felt real, so real that it overwhelmed him, and he had to rest his face against her skirts to steady himself after the shock.

 

‘Sherlock,’ she whispered, because only he needed to hear her. She coaxed him up until he met her gaze, and cradled his face in her hands. ‘I am so sorry for running away, my darling. For leaving with no explanation, being too cowardly to admit how I feel about you, I can never-’

 

Her speech ended there because at that moment he chose to kiss her, channelling so much of the longing and frustration of their separation into it that they were both breathless when he pulled away.

 

‘How you _feel_?’ He clarified raggedly, his hands caged protectively around her waist.

 

‘Yes, Sherlock,’ she smiled fully for the first time in two and a half months, brushing a curl away from his forehead with affection. ‘I love you, you brilliant man.’ He exhaled happily, and pressed his lips to hers again.

 

‘Will you marry me?’ Sherlock murmured into her neck, refusing to part with her for a single second now that he had her back again.

 

They had much to discuss, about what had happened in Derbyshire, and why she had left. It still bothered him that she had not trusted him enough to stay, and he wanted to devote himself to discovering how he could ease all her doubt in him forever.

 

But then she said yes, throwing herself into his arms, cooperating most enthusiastically when he rolled them over so that she was pressed between him and the carpet.

 

And, just like that, there was no need for talking for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an end, of sorts, which I only realised halfway through writing. I'm quite happy with how it all comes together, although I could be persuaded to write more if that was something that you all desperately wished to see. 
> 
> Anyway, if this is the last chapter, I just want to say thank you for all of your support and generosity. It's been a labour of love, but I am so proud of it, not least because so many of you seemed to enjoy it. Whatever happens in series four, I hope this little corner of the internet continues to engage so many talented, creative people, and it has been my pleasure to serve amongst them.

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wouldn't write anything until after my exams, but this came to me suddenly and I had to get it down. It's a bit different to everything I've written so far, but I love the idea of Victorian Sherlock, and I hope I didn't screw it up too badly. I'm not sure yet how long this is going to be, but I hope you'll stick around to find out! When my exams finish I'll have much more time to work on this, and I also wanted to let you know that I have Tumblr (I'm AquaFontem on there too), so if you have any prompts then I might pick them up! :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! AF


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